The Eighteenth Chapter
by Scatterheart
Summary: UPDATED: Sec. 23, May 27. HG, SS. A series of harmless pranks on the Potions Professor makes Hermione develop a dangerous attraction for Snape. (How's that for a cruddy summary!)
1. Section One

Categories: Drama, angst, romance.

Rating: PG-13 for drama, language. Rating might go up in the future.

Summary: Voldemort's defeated and now everyone's bored. Hermione turns her attention to Professor Snape. This will be an ongoing story. Updated (hopefully) every week! Unless I can't. Har har.

Disclaimer: Me no own.

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section One

            Ron Weasley stared into the glowing fireplace and tossed a Bertie Bott Every Flavor Bean into the licking flames. The fire sparked and flashed a sickening brown for a few seconds before it reverted back to its previous state. 

            "Dirt," Ron muttered.

            A table away, Hermione, Harry and Neville had laid out the game of Chinese Checkers that Harry had received last Christmas from Cho. "No, Neville, you're not supposed to take any marbles _off_ of the board! How many times do I have to tell you, that's not the point!" Hermione was saying.

            Harry stifled a yawn and absentmindedly rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. Ever since the defeat of Voldemort two months ago, his scar had shown signs of fading; now the only sensation it caused him was a light itch that reminded him of a days old mosquito bite. "Is it my turn?" he said.

            "Sorry Harry, we have to start over." Hermione plucked the colored marbles from the board and set them in their appropriate dents in the corners of the star. "Neville thought this was chess."

            "Chinese Checkers, Wizard Checkers, chess, what's the difference?" Neville shrugged. "You just have to clear away your opponent's pieces."

            "Neville..."

            Ron threw another bean into the fireplace. This time the flames practically burst straight to the Common Room ceiling with its deafening roar.

            A group of Gryffindors in the middle of the room shrieked and ducked for cover behind the sofa as Neville shot out of his chair with a frantic yell and swiped his hand over the table in front of him. Several dozen marbles were flung into the air, landing with a clatter and bouncing like multicolored fleas all over the polished hardwood.

            Ron wiggled his eyebrows as the fire receded. "Sardine."

            Hermione howled in exasperation. "Ron! What'd you have to do that for!" she screeched, running over to him and snatching the red pouch of candy away from his lap. 

            "What did I do?"

            "You're going to have to clean that up, Professor Pyromaniac," she replied, pointing to the game pieces rolling on the floor.

            Ron retrieved his wand from his belt and said a cleaning charm. The metal game board flew onto the table and the marbles clinked into their places. "Done!" He smiled.

            Hermione flung the bag of Bertie Bott's at his chest and walked back to the table. "Okay, now we're _really_ going to play," she began; she looked at Harry and groaned. His head was resting his arms and his eyes were closed. "Harry! Wake up!"

            "What!" Harry slurred, scrunching his face together. "I was right in the middle of a good dream..."

            "Aren't you going to play?" Hermione demanded.

            Harry opened his eyes and stared incomprehensibly at the girl in front of him for a long moment. "What?"

            Hermione blinked rapidly in response, frowning. Then she sat limply into her chair. "You're very perceptive."

            "And I'm going to read a book. Cheers," Neville declared, excusing himself from the table. As he shuffled off into the hallway, the fireplace emitted another small fizzing spark.

            "Damn, that was New York Cheesecake," came Ron's disappointed complaint.

            "I'm bored," Hermione Granger said.

--

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	2. Section Two

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Two

            With the defeat of Voldemort came a peace and quiet that Hogwarts had never known. For the first time in what had to be centuries, the soft blanket of snow that fell upon the Hogwarts grounds carried no insidious threat or dark implication beneath its innocent façade. There were no more dangers lurking in the corridors. No more scars and Death Marks and spies and blood splattered walls. Christmas break would idly pass and the snows would melt; then a green spring would emerge and the seventh years would be graduated with the coming of the summer.

            Hermione Granger stared out at the expanse of white field and forest from the large window in her dormitory and hugged her woolen blanket around her body. For seven Christmas breaks she had seen the same view, she realized. Maybe not from the same location (when she had been elected Head Girl several months ago she had been given a private room) but nevertheless it felt as if she had been taken back in time, and she was only a first year occupying a shared dorm, soaking up in awe the sights and surprises of the wizard domain known as Hogwarts.

            To her, Hogwarts seemed timeless, endless, and she had to remind herself that she was already eighteen years old and that she would be leaving the school at the end of June. She could hardly believe it: she was a seventh year. She let the truth of the matter settle into her mind like the snows settling over the landscape, and a vague heaviness pressed upon her heart. She was eighteen; she was an adult who had journeyed through hell, not a wide-eyed kid bouncing through the gates of Hogwarts with pastel dreams of magic. But for some reason she did not feel like an adult, and she did not know whether she wanted to move backward in time, or if she had the ability to move forward.

--

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	3. Section Three

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Three

"... and take out your books and read chapters sixteen and seventeen," Professor Severus Snape finished, swooping in his usual manner like a raven to his podium and occupying himself with a fresh pile of student papers. 

            From the second desk in the third row, Neville Longbottom creakily opened his Potions Handbook and nudged Hermione, who sat beside him. "I didn't read chapter fifteen so I have no idea what's going on," he whispered.

            "Chapter fifteen was about the alternate properties of wormwood. It was just a review of what we read before break," Hermione replied, flipping through the pages of her own book.

            "_Before break? But I forgot everything from _before_ break!"_

            "Neville, that was only three weeks ago..."

            "Can I borrow your notes?"

            She had already known this was coming. "Fine," she said automatically. "But you have to give it to me by tomorrow morning."

            "Miss Granger," a deep voice called from the front of the classroom.

            Hermione sighed to herself, but in the back of her brain she had known that this had been coming as well. Seven years of sitting next to Neville in Potions had thoroughly accustomed her to Snape's warnings and threats of detention. Their words were a ritual to her now, like a famous script being rehearsed on a daily basis.

            "Yes, Professor?" she said absently, her attention not leaving the chapter in front of her: The Advanced Medicinal Uses of Wormwood.

            "Are you helping Neville again?"

            "I'm sorry, Professor."

            "Mind your own business before I take ten points from Gryffindor."

            "Yes, Professor." She peeked at him from the corner of her eye and saw that he, too, had not diverted his focus from the work on his podium. Suddenly, it struck her as unbearably funny, this near decade of identical dialogue being mechanically thrown back and forth, and a giggle bubbled up to her lips.

            She found herself instantly staring into Snape's black pupils.

            "Tell me, Miss Granger, what you find about wormwood that is so funny," Snape said.

            Hermione felt Neville's confused poke in the side of her arm. "What the hell is the matter with you, 'Mione?" he hissed.

            "I'm not asking _you_," Snape snapped to the boy, his glare not leaving Hermione. "Miss Granger?"

            "I'm _very sorry, Professor," Hermione said, a grin still pulling at her cheeks._

            Snape met her grin with a particularly nasty sneer. "Yes, you certainly look very sorry. Twelve points from Gryffindor."

            "Why not twelve and a _half_ points, Professor?" Draco Malfoy queried from the back of the classroom. "Why not twenty-one and eighty-nine ninety-fourths points? Why not—"

            Hermione dissolved onto her desk in a fit of laughter. Neville was right, she thought distantly through her mirth. What in the world was the matter with her, indeed.

            "Apparently seventh years no longer consider the point system to be of any importance," Snape mused darkly. "I suppose I will just have to add chapter eighteen and nineteen to the homework for today." He stepped off of his chair and walked levelly to Hermione, his cloak swirling behind him.

            Hermione gulped down another wave of laughter that was threatening to consume her, and managed to keep a straight face as the Potions Professor towered in front of her and crossed his arms. "Uh, you don't have to give us any more work," she said.

            Snape cocked an elegantly arched eyebrow. "I don't _have to, you say? Since when were you my superior, Hermione?"_

            "I speak on the behalf of the class."

            "_Really."_

            "Um... ow."

            Neville had given her a painful jab to the ribs. "Don't mind her. She's gone barmy, Professor Snape," he stammered.

            "I think I saw her drink ten glasses of butterbeer last night," Malfoy interjected. "She must be nursing a _terrible_ hangover—"

            "Shut up, Mr. Malfoy," Snape cut him off curtly, "before you spend the rest of the week scraping frog guts from second year cauldrons." He turned Hermione. "Miss Granger, I give you two options." His voice was rumbling, like the purr of a big cat. "You may either excuse yourself to Madame Pomfrey's and regain your senses in the hospital ward, or you may remain in my class and keep whatever ails you to yourself. Do you understand me?"

            "Yes sir! I mean, Professor."

            "What will it be?"

            "I'll stay here."

            "Then read." He uncrossed his arms and slowly pushed the textbook to her with both hands.

            As Hermione straightened the book in front of her, she brushed her fingers along the sides of his; they were dry and warm under her perfectly moisturized fingertips.

            Snape jerked his hands back as though he had just been electrocuted. His gaze darted fleetingly to Neville, but the boy was busy retrieving a pocket dictionary from his book bag.

            "Miss Granger..." Snape said. His eyes narrowed at her, and Hermione saw that his jaw was tight. "Watch yourself, Miss Granger." He swooped away amidst an unfurling length of black fabric.

            A minute later, when the classroom had fallen back into its deathly silence, Hermione released the breath she had been holding, and inhaled shudderingly. Her skin was burning where she had touched Professor Snape. She trembled. What frightened her was not the fact that she had actually touched him, but because she didn't know if her action had been only a harmless accident, or something other than that. And his hands had been so warm, and his stunned reaction afterward had been so… genuine. She knew now that the cartoon villain who had prowled through the dungeons every day of her seven years here was human. 

            That thought frightened her the most.

--

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	4. Section Four

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Four

            Later that day in the Common Room, over mugs of steaming hot chocolate, Ron quipped to Harry, "Today Hermione flipped out in Potions."

            "I did not flip out," Hermione said, nestling into the sofa and opening her Muggle Studies novel to the place held by a satin bookmark.

            "Fine then. She had a laugh attack. While class was in session."

            "Ron!"

            Harry smiled cheesily as he plopped down in the sofa next to Hermione and said, "The _one day I excuse myself from class to coach the new Quidditch goalie and all hell breaks loose." He took a slurping sip of his hot chocolate. "Is this true, 'Mione?"_

            Hermione covered her head with the paperback novel, smelling the dusty sweet scent of the pages. "No," she sighed muffedly, and gave a small sneeze. "I was only laughing at something Draco said."

            "_That gasbag made you laugh? __We never make you laugh! How come you let your – your – _laughing_ virginity be broken by a Slytherin?"_

            "_Excuse me?" For some reason real anger flared up within her, and she chucked the novel at Harry. Hard. The boy missed it by a mere millimeter as his lightening reflexes brought his body into a tight crouch. The novel sailed into the air and crash landed on the Persian rug._

            "Hey, I was only joking, you know!" Harry sputtered, straightening.

            Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's not very funny. In fact, it's not funny at _all."_

            "Especially after the greasy old git gave us two extra chapters of work for her little exhibition," finished Ron. "We now have to read from sixteen to nineteen by tomorrow. Have fun, Harry."

            "Are you kidding me?"

            "No, and I don't even understand half of chapter eighteen. He didn't go over it in class. If only 'Mione hadn't—"

            "I'm going to bed," Hermione announced loudly, picking herself up from the sofa and setting her mug of hot chocolate roughly on the coffee table. The liquid inside sloshed and spilled out in a little dark brown ring on the mahogany surface.

            When she had reached the base of the dorm stairway, Ron called out to her: "What about chapter eighteen?"

            Hermione wheeled around. "What about it?"

            "Well we don't understand it and we need some help."

            It's not my fault, she thought, and felt another surge of indignant anger rise. Even _she_ could not explain what had happened in Potions earlier that day, and she did not need Ron's childish taunting and blaming to guide her through her churning thoughts. "Read it again," she said.

            "That's not going to help very much. I need Snape's lesson plan."

            The first mention of Snape's name all evening made Hermione's heart jump into her throat and lodge there. She swallowed thickly, and somehow the words popped out of her mouth like a floodgate she could not control: "Then quit your complaining. I'll go get it from him right now."

            The two pairs of ogling eyes gaping at her confirmed it: the Head Girl had gone insane. "You're saying you're going to go to Snape's chambers _right now, knock on his door, ask for the lesson plan, and give them to us?" Ron demanded in disbelief._

            Hermione winced to herself. Her heart was now palpitating at quadruple speed against her ribcage. "Yeah," she feigned in an easy tone, shrugging. "I started this mess and now I'm going to end it."

            "You can stop faking now," Harry said.

            "I'm not _faking_!"

            "But what if he's asleep?"

            "At ten in the evening?" Hermione sputtered. "Then I guess I'll have to wake him up." And before the boys could see the fierce blush that had exploded onto her cheeks, she had hurried to the Common Room door and exited.

            The door slammed behind Hermione like a gunshot.

            A few quiet moments passed, and Ron gave an incredulous expression to Harry. "Let me tell you, man, she's lost it."

            "She didn't lose it. I know why she's going down there," Harry said confidentially, holding his mug to his lips.

            "Why?"

            "Because she needs the lesson plans for herself, of course." He took a gulp and chuckled.

            Ron nodded slowly. "Oh yeah. I never saw it as that way before."

--

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	5. Section Five

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Five

                        Hermione let her feet carry her senselessly through the familiar, blackened stone hallways. What was she doing? _What was she doing? _What was she trying to prove? She desperately hoped that the frigid evening air would shock her to some sense and make her dive back into the sanctuary and comfort of the Common Room; instead she only tingled with heightened awareness.

            Awareness, awareness, awareness. The word babbled incomprehensibly in her mind and mixed with a jumble of inner voices that clambered to her in the deathly silence. These voices… she identified them to be her thoughts, previously unspoken and now uncovered in the darkness. They ran every which way, loudly shouting and inaudibly whispering in foreign languages, and then shimmering off on fleeting tangents. These were the thoughts that made up the core of her soul.

And Hermione Granger could not recognize any of them. She had never been given any opportunity to recognize them; after all, her waking days were crammed with textbooks and homework, and her evenings were spent dazedly chatting or collapsing into exhausted slumbers.

What was it that she had said not so long ago? "I'm bored."

Yes, perhaps she was bored, but she was also ignorant. And lost. Her universe was a teeming volcano of emotions, and she had bottled it and categorized it and squeezed it into the size of a gaming marble. What, was she _afraid_ to let it out? She had built up her walls and shields so high for so long that she could not comprehend her own being, even when she came screaming at herself in these rare, tomblike nights.

And now, as she turned the corner to slowly make her way down the spiral steps leading to the dungeons, she fully understood it for the first time: the bookish girl with the mane of frizzy brown hair had lived for seven years in this tower known as Hogwarts, but Hermione Granger did not even exist.

Hermione Granger, the _real_ Hermione Granger, was utterly and totally alone.

_But what did it mean? _Another voice was piping up thinly among the rushing, passing mass. And then it was consumed by another wave of thoughts, and was gone.

Hermione Granger found herself standing motionlessly in front of the Potion Master's private chamber.

And all the voices left her and everything was quiet.

She snapped out of her confusion. The immediate task at hand suddenly presented itself to her as very incredibly (and there was no other word to put it) _stupid_. 

"I am going to get the lesson plan from Professor Snape. At ten in the evening," she said to herself, just to let the words ring ridiculously into her ears. She shook her head and started to retrace her way to the exit. And took about four steps before that wild, insatiable urge for – _something_ – overwhelmed her again and she rushed back to the slab of cold door and knocked before she could change her mind. 

The knocks echoed hollowly through the icy corridor. She knocked again; was met with the same answer of nothingness. 

Well, it was a bloody idiotic plan, anyway, she thought, turning on her heels to leave.

And a blast of air, not entirely cold, hit the back of her neck.

Hermione spun around to see the figure of Professor Severus Snape standing in the open doorway of his room.

"Oh, it's you, Miss Granger," the professor said, evenly, but the paleness of his knuckles clutching at the doorframe betrayed his shock. "What do you want?"

"I…" Hermione faltered. She took in the sight of him, dressed in dark slacks and a white cotton shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck. He was backlit by a roaring fireplace from somewhere behind him, and the edges of his black hair burned red like old copper. "I was wondering if… if you could, you know… Professor, the thing is, today… remember how you gave out those assignments? And we didn't…"

"If you have a point, Miss Granger, feel free to get to it," Snape helped.

"I want to see your lesson plan for chapter eighteen of the Advanced Potions Handbook," she blurted out.

Snape blinked, once. "Pardon?"

"The lesson plan," Hermione repeated.

"Yes, I heard you the first time."

"You see, the thing is, you assigned us the chapters for homework, but you never really went over the lesson in class, and I was wondering—"

"No."

"No?"

"Please remove yourself from my sight and go back to your dormitory, Miss Granger," Snape said.

At that moment a dusty voice creaked out from the distance, "Who's there? Show yourself if you don't want to get hurt!" It was unmistakably Argus Filch, and the sound of his rapidly scuffling footfalls neared as he made his way around an unseen hallway.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for your troublemaking," Snape murmured crossly under his breath. He took Hermione by the top of her arm and pulled her inside of the room.

Hermione practically needed to grab onto him to stop herself from swooning unsteadily and falling. The events that had unfolded in the past few minutes seemed like a dizzying scene from a nightmare or a dream. And now the door had clicked shut behind her, and she was standing inside Severus Snape's chamber, alone with the Potion Master. 

--

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	6. Section Six

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Six

Hermione could not recall a time when she had been more nervous than she was now. She had broken out into perspiration; her palms were damp and hot.  Her brain swelled inside her head and throbbed to the painful rushes of blood that came with each incessant heartbeat. Could he hear them, she wondered in dread. Could he see the wholly unwanted effect he was so effortlessly causing her by simply standing there? 

            "Well?" He was analyzing her expectantly, clinically, like a judge at a contest waiting to brand his scathing marks to every imperfection his brown-green irises reflected. "How will you explain yourself, Miss Granger?"

            "I can't," Hermione helplessly confessed in a shivering exhale.

            "Oh? Shall I confiscate more points from your house, then?" He folded his arms in front of his body, and tapped his finger in a quick rhythm on his bicep.

            Yes, he most definitely could hear her heartbeat. And he was mocking her.

Hermione clenched her teeth. "I don't think it's fair for you to assign the whole class extra work for… what I did."

"I see you've finally decided to claim responsibility for your actions," Snape replied. "But unfortunately I will not change my decision. If you are having trouble with your homework, please consult the library or set up an appointment with me during my office hours next week."

"I'm sorry if I came at a bad time."

"No you're not."

"Well, my friends need help on their work, Professor."

"You've caused their problem, not me."

"Professor Snape," Hermione countered, "I thought professors were supposed to _help their students, not purposely impede them from their learning." And she felt another swell of panic sweep over her as she realized she had just verbally delivered him a slap to the face._

Professor Snape was silent. One corner of his mouth twitched as he stared at her, and Hermione braced herself for the upcoming tirade. But Snape only said, "Professors are also supposed to teach _discipline_ when students misbehave. And you have broken four or five rules in class today, Miss Granger." 

"Just what did I do today that deserves a whole class of students flunking two chapters' worth of work?"

"You should know that yourself," Snape answered.

Of course she knew. She blushed, but forced herself not to flinch. "I laughed."

"And inappropriately disrupted class."

"So did Draco!"

Snape sighed. "Do not put the blame on others while we are still discussing the topic of _you_. And, if you must know, Mr. Malfoy has been justly rewarded. He will be serving thirty minutes of detention with me tomorrow afternoon."

"Why am _I_ not serving detention? Why do I have all of _this_ on me?"

"It will teach others not to follow in your – prolific – footsteps, Miss Granger. No – do not frown at me like that. You _know_ you have disrupted my class more often than anyone else, combined. Must I elaborate this to you in any clearer terms, or can I trust you to think it out yourself?"

"I was just trying to help!"

"By laughing," he deadpanned.

"No, _before_ that!" Hermione said. Her cheeks were practically on fire now, and she knew for a fact that he could see their intense crimson shade. This was the longest time in her history at Hogwarts that she had ever talked to the Professor, and a niggling, creeping suspicion told her that this was the longest time a student had _ever_ held her ground in his presence without fleeing. But she couldn't stop. Couldn't stop.

"When I was helping Neville," Hermione said, "sometimes – most times – Neville just doesn't get it and I need to explain stuff to him. Maybe this disrupts some people, but if—"

"And you take it upon yourself to correct this?"

"I'm only trying—"

"You're not the teacher, Granger."

"—I know—"

"Nor a martyr." He continued in a hard tone: "And neither should you be using my class as a means of gaining personal glory or forging friendships. Do you understand?"

_Personal glory. Forging friendships._

Something thumped painfully in the pit of her stomach, like a hammer striking a nail squarely on the head and driving it in deep. Stars seared her vision, and an unexpected sensation overtook her. Tears.

Tears, stinging her eyes and nose.

_Oh, for Merlin's sake…!_

She was not going to cry in front of Severus Snape!

She looked around her instead at the small, tidy room brimming with bookshelves and parchment and leather bound volumes; anything to keep the tears from spilling.

She was not going to cry.

Insufferable bastard, that's what he was. What had she been expecting? An angel? A savior? No, Professor Snape was an insufferable, miserable bastard, like he always had been and always would be.

She was not going to cry.

"So will you give me the lesson plans or not?" she said, loudly.

"I am not."

Hermione abandoned all sense of control. "Then suit yourself, _Professor_!"

"I forbid you to use that attitude with me, Miss Granger!" he snarled. 

But she was already gone with a deafening smash of the door.

In the reverberating wake that followed, Severus Snape closed his eyes and dared not to breathe. What had just happened? She had come, she had conjured fire, and she had vanished like a ghost in the night. 

Hermione, he thought disjointedly, as if he were suspended in that ephemeral moment between sleep and awakening. Princess Hermione, daughter of Helen and Menelaus. Daughter of the most beautiful woman in the world, and the king of warring Sparta. What else did the legends say about her? The bits and pieces of ancient Muggle history had long escaped him, but he recognized the recipe for chaos when he saw one. 

Beauty and war.

He had seen the tears trembling on her lashes, glowing like enchanted jewels.

--

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	7. Section Seven

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Seven

"Are you okay?" Harry asked when Hermione entered the Common Room. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and squinted at her. "Your eyes are red."

"Do you know how mildewy it is down there? I think I'm allergic," the girl said with a grimace. "Or maybe it's just the toxic fumes from that asshole Snape's hair grease."

Ron leaned over the back of the sofa and let out a low whistle. "Did I just hear you say 'asshole'? Geez, what did _he_ do to make you swear up the wall?"

"What'd you think? I wasted thirty minutes of my time for absolutely nothing. I couldn't get the lesson plan. Bastard."

"Hey, hey, it's no problem. At least you tried. By the time you were gone I figured out most of the stuff anyway."

Hermione pinned the redhead with an ice-coated glare, which he returned as an impish grin. "Sorry 'Mione."

"Apology," Hermione said as she swiftly made her way to the stairs, "accepted, Ron."

"Great." Ron popped a chocolate frog in his mouth. 

--

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	8. Section Eight

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Eight

                The following Potions class was largely a quiet affair, which consisted mostly of the sounds of pages flipping, scratchy quills on crackling parchment, and occasional winter coughs.

Hermione stared down at the rows upon blurry rows of writing in the textbook in front of her and tried to think – or rather, _not_ to think. She could not afford to think; the risk of losing a grip on the last shreds of her sanity was too high. The previous night's dreams had been filled with dark, rolling shapes that had trapped her in torrid embraces, and she had woken to find her bedcovers intertwined around her and her abdomen pulsing with the echo of a forbidden experience.

No, she could not think or analyze or make mental connections to real life, or do anything of the sort. Absolutely, absolutely not.

She felt an abrupt nudge at her side. "Hey, I don't understand anything on Chapter Nineteen," Neville mumbled. "Show me your answers to the reading questions."

Hermione shook her head, her hair tumbling like a descending curtain in front of her face. She made no move to brush it away; only kept her head bowed.

"Hello, woman? Can I see your work?" Neville repeated.

"No," Hermione shot back in a hiss. "If you have a question, ask Professor Snape."

Neville squeaked. 

Hermione didn't actually need to turn to see that Longbottom had started to gape at her with saucer eyes and a round mouth that opened and closed like that of a drowning fish. "I'm not so sure about the questions either," she lied, forcing herself to concentrate on the strings of sentences before her. "Just ask the Professor if you're so stumped. What's he going to do? Bite you?"

"What's the matter with you, Hermione!"

"Nothing," she replied more heatedly than she had intended to. "What's the matter with _you? Why do you always have to ask __me?"_

"Because you're my friend—"

"And Snape's your teacher. Ask him."

"But I—"

"Mr. Longbottom," Severus Snape said from the front of the dungeon. His voice was soft and unassuming. "Do you have a question?"

Hermione now imagined the poor boy looking like a toad that had just swallowed an ostrich egg. But the image struck no chord of amusement inside her, and only left her with an empty, filmy feeling that could only be described as pity. She tugged at her sweater and wrapped it closer about her body. 

Neville cleared his throat. "I, uh… actually Hermione was—"

"Mr. Longbottom."

"Yes, Professor, I was only asking Hermione—"

He didn't as much as twitch at the sound of her name. "I'm asking _you, Mr. Longbottom. Do _you_ have a question?"_

Hermione was filled with disgust. Apparently she had just evaporated away from the collective memory of the entire human race, as much as Professor Snape was concerned. She wanted to stand up on the desk and scream a profanity at him; perhaps he was notice her then, notice that she was not defeated from last night's battle.

"I… well…" Neville stuttered.

"Come here and show me the problem."

"Well, I don't…"

Snape stood in one velvet motion. "Then, Mr. Longbottom, I will go over there." He descended from his podium and walked along the row of desks, his shoes clicking like a metronome against the stone floor.

The thirty souls inside the classroom were all silent now, quills and parchments forgotten, as they perched on the edges of their seats and visually followed the Potion Master's every movement with mesmerized intrigue.

He passed in front of Hermione; without thinking, Hermione stuck out her foot from beneath the desk. It met with resistance, and she raised her head just in time to see Professor Snape stumble heavily forward like a fluttering black butterfly.

Stumbled, but did not fall. He grabbed the edges of Neville's table and held himself in check as his cloak continued to wildly undulate and rustle about his still figure.

And then came the whispers. Little chuckles, murmurs, thrown here and there through every crevice of the classroom. Someone coughed conspicuously three times, the last cough ending on a garbled syllable that sounded like "rheumatism," and the suppressed snuffles and giggles grew louder and more confident with each passing second.

"Silence," Snape said. 

There was total silence. His voice could have sliced through granite.

Hermione tucked her foot under her chair.

"Now, Mr. Longbottom," Snape said. "What was your question?" And still he did not glance at her.

Hermione heaved an audible sigh. He was a vile bastard, but no fool. He knew. He knew that she knew that he knew. It was ridiculous. She decided that she hated him.

"Uh, well, I wanted to check if my math was right. On problem number three here," Neville was saying, pointing a pudgy finger at his scrap of parchment. "I remember that you said that wormwood equaled one and a half times basil in this potion? So, three dashes wormwood would be three and a half dashes… no,_ four and a half dashes of basil. Oh. Wait a minute. Yeah, I see how it is now—"_

 "I expect this was _not your question, Mr. Longbottom. Was it?"_

"Neville, I need to borrow a quill," Hermione interrupted, reaching over his desk and taking the spare one lying beside his textbook. She dragged the feather across the back of Snape's hand as she brought it to her own desk.

The Potions Master drew a sharp breath.

Good, Hermione thought, bitterly.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for your superior intelligence and… _audacity, Mr. Longbottom," Snape said, and left._

--

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	9. Section Nine

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Nine

                The Quidditch field was still covered in a serene blanket of snow, but that was the condition in which Harry Potter had insisted to play. "We've never even _tried_ playing in the snow! It'll be a great view!" he'd insisted at lunchtime to the circle of uniformed Gryffindors sitting around him at the far end of the dining hall. "And besides, we need to build up stamina for the next tournament."

"No one wants to compete now, Harry. It's bloody not the time."

"Who cares? I'll lead you in some drills. If the Gryffindor team can learn to play Quidditch any day, _any time, then we will win tournaments every year for the next eighty years."_

Ron had scowled, half in jest, to Hermione, as they nibbled on their roast beef sandwiches. He'd pointed, three tables over, to where Harry was gesticulating grandly to his team. "This man forgets we exist sometimes, you know? He's a Quidditch nut. I bet he's trying to convince them of that stupid idea to go and play Quidditch _now. Now, in the bleeding winter! Geez."_

Hermione had smiled wanly. "He's the captain, after all."

"That's right, so they follow him like sheep. But, hey, if he ever gets them to do it, will you come with me and watch?"

"Sure."

And now, two hours later, Hermione found herself bundled in a parka and sitting on a frosted bleacher bench as the Gryffindor boys soared above her through a crystal blue, snow-bordered sky. 

"Wicked," Ron said from beside her, stamping his feet. "But cold."

"Very," she agreed.

They clapped as Harry veered his Nimbus in a nosedive and caught the Snitch a mere meter away from the ground.

"You're very quiet lately, 'Mione," Ron said. "Is there anything wrong?"

"No, nothing. I'm a little tired, I guess. From all the Potions homework."

Ron groaned. "Yes, our darling Professor Snape is being extra torturous – hey. Oh my God, do you see that?" He nodded his chin toward the bleachers opposite the field.

Two shapes were nuzzling and kissing each other in the winter chill, two shapes that closely resembled…

"Draco and Pansy?" Ron demanded incredulously. "They do _not_ need to be snogging in the middle of _our_ Quidditch practice. Disgusting."

But it wasn't disgusting.

Hermione gazed motionlessly at the couple as though she were bewitched. They were kissing, and they were gentle with each other, and for some reason it was so _beautiful to her, the way Draco's hair shone like pale gold against the snow, and the way Pansy's arm embraced the young man's waist._

Hermione shivered, violently. She experienced a plummeting sensation in her stomach that left her feeling empty and hollow, and all of a sudden the winds seemed to lash out to her with their icy tendrils. She shivered again. She didn't belong here, she thought. No, not here, not now. It was so cold. So_ cold._

"Ron, I don't want to watch anymore," she said, getting to her feet. There was nothing more she wanted to do than to leave this place. "I'm going to study at the library."

"What! But you said you would stay!"

"I have so much work to do. I can't—"

"You promised, Hermione!" Ron whined.

She turned and started trudging down the bleacher lane that led to the entryway of the Hogwarts building. "I need to study, okay?"

"But you always study. Why don't you ever have time …"

His protests trailed off as she left him in the distance behind her. In her mind's eye, she saw the freckled boy gawking at her in confusion, and the flock of Quidditch players swooping like red and yellow angels across the sky. She remembered how, during lunchtime, Harry had practically jumped out of his seat as he'd lectured to his team, and she realized that she had not heard a word he had been saying.

He had been so far away. So far away that she could hardly even _see_ him.

Hermione tucked her hands into the pockets of her parka and entered the Hogwarts building, alone.

--

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	10. Section Ten

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Ten

She saw Draco and Pansy two times the following weekend, and three more times during the subsequent week. They stood close to one another as they chatted in a secluded corner of the Great Hall, or held hands as they walked through the passageways. The perpetual hard smirk on Draco's face would disappear with Pansy's presence. And they would even smile to each other; many times the smiles were not on their lips but in the way their brows dipped as they nodded in response to a secret joke. 

But the greatest shock to Hermione was that they were not the only couple at Hogwarts. Seventh years, sixth years, and even fifth year boys and girls had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, kissing, hugging, cuddling. Could it be possible they had found their mates during the short winter break? Or could it be possible that Hermione had just been completely blind the gentler side of this school?

Sometimes she would stand there, outside of the Arithmancy classroom or on the steps leading to the dungeons, and simply watch. Couples coming, couples going. And, more often than not, she would be jolted from her daze by duos of carefree romancers that would run into her as they plowed invincibly through the corridors.

And so Hermione would enter class and study, and eat her meals in the Great Hall, and do homework inside her private dorm until she fell asleep. And in Potions, she would not help Neville, and would noiselessly leave each period without being cautioned of losing house points or gaining detention.

The seven-year ritual of enduring Professor Snape's daily warnings had ended.

Something felt erased inside of her.

--

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	11. Section Eleven

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Eleven

The next week, the temperature rose and the snows melted. Hermione awoke to the warm, orange rays of the sun beaming through the window and shining over her closed eyelids. In celebration of the springtime, she decided to wear her gray skirt instead of the black, wool trousers that had scratched her for most of the winter.

--

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	12. Section Twelve

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

A long time ago in a campus far, far away… 

Section Twelve

The skirt turned out to be a bad idea. It had shrunk too short in the last wash, and most of the classrooms, especially the dungeons, were still suffering from the remnants of the wintry draft. Hermione entered Potions and sat in her chair with her bare legs curled up under her as firmly as she could. She breathed into her cupped hands and rubbed her thighs, trying in vain to generate a meager amount of warmth.

"Hey, Hermione." Ron and Harry waved to her as they walked to their seats in the front of the classroom. They resumed arguing about Quidditch before Hermione could greet them back; she turned the beginnings of her wave into a reach for the inkpot on her desk. She adjusted the inkpot and set her hands in front of her. She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling nothing.

"We have an exam today. Take out three sheets of parchment and write an essay on the differences between lamb's blood and dried oysters," Professor Snape barked in his usual manner as he marched to his podium. He sat down, arms crossed, and frowned. "And for those of you who have decided to use your chairs as gymnastics apparatuses, I ask you to sit _correctly, or excuse yourself from my class and receive a zero on the exam."_

That was how he addressed her now, Hermione thought in resentment, swinging her legs from the chair and setting her feet on the floor. A collective "all of you." He never seemed to look at her, yet always seemed to see her, judge her. She yanked three sheets of parchment from her book bag and slapped them on the desktop. _I ask you to sit correctly, _he'd said. Fine. She'll sit correctly. She grabbed her quill and swirled it noisily inside the ink.

Snape glared at her with a look that shot poisoned darts.

And Hermione quietly stretched out her legs and spread them.

Yes, he caught her sitting "correctly" now, didn't he? His expression had hardened into dry ice, his eyes unreadable. His jaw was tense in that same way Hermione had seen on that day she'd caressed him. Good. She discreetly reached down and pulled the edge of her skirt upward on her leg. 

The Potions Master appeared angry now. Very, very angry.

Then why don't you do something about it, you bastard, she silently spat at him. According to you I might as well not be here anyway; why the bloody hell do you care what I'm doing?

And besides, the room was not quite so cold anymore. Hermione hiked her skirt higher and snaked her hand against her inner thigh, slowly massaging, up and up.

He finally broke when she touched the thin cotton fabric of her panties. "Hermione Granger," Snape annunciated, his voice ringing loudly through the stillness of the dungeon. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for indecent exam behavior. You have a five-hour detention after school today."

She removed her hand.

--

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	13. Section Thirteen

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley) 

Section Lucky Number Thirteen

When Hermione entered the dungeons after her last class, a little haltingly, for whatever demons that had possessed her to do – _that_ – during the Potions exam had long since disappeared, Snape closed the door behind her with a charm and said, "Give me three valid reasons – no, give me _one valid reason – why I should not report you to the headmaster, and I will not, Miss Granger. Give me __one reason."_

Hermione attempted to swallow, but a lump had formed in her throat. She could not speak.

"Stumped, Miss Granger?" Snape bared his teeth. "Surprise, surprise. Then it may not come as news to you that I am also stumped by the numerous antics that you have evidently _delighted yourself in performing during the past weeks. I am not blind, Miss Granger. I know every prank that you have pulled in this class. For the sake of your dignity I will not list them out for you, but I expect that you have a clear idea in that 'brilliant' head of yours what I very well know. Now, will you tell me – what is your _motive_ for these actions? Do enlighten me with your profound knowledge. Hmm?"_

She didn't think she had ever seen him this livid in her life. He was pacing the floor in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back, his skin like frozen ivory and his eyes like smoldering black emeralds.

"Was it the Potter boy?" he continued scathingly when she did not respond. "Or Mr. Weasley who has set you up with these series of… _dares_?" He gritted the word as though it were a profanity. "Have you found it particularly amusing to underhandedly break as many rules as you can in my class? Miss Granger, do not think I will refrain from reporting you because you are the Head Girl and you have received high marks from me these past few years. I _can expel you from Hogwarts, and trust me, if the situation calls for it, I _will_."_

She was frightened of him. Now that the classroom was deserted and the protective shield of students was gone, she felt as if she and Professor Snape were isolated in an island of blinding white lights, where her soul was glaringly bared to him in an open book. And she was frightened. "Please stop," she said. "Please stop."

Snape ceased pacing. "You mystify me, Miss Granger."

Well, truth be told, she mystified herself. Why had she done all those things she did? A year ago, if someone had predicted she would be acting like _that_ to Professor Snape, she would have mockingly laughed and sprayed a glass of pumpkin juice into his face. Now, embarrassment and disgrace sunk like a stone within her heart. The Potions Master was right; she deserved to be expelled.

But the way he had so flippantly disregarded her… she had been so furious then. _Why?_

Hermione felt her skin flaming in frustration, fear, and helplessness. She stammered out the first thing she could think of: "Look, I'm sorry. I won't be doing anything like that again. I—"

"An insincere apology will not solve the problem."

"I swear to you, Professor, I _won't!"_

He narrowed his eyes at her. "I will be blunt with you. You seem to change personalities with the tides, Miss Granger. Now you stand before me, crying for repentance like a child, while three hours ago you had unashamedly acted the role of a… a temptr—"

"Stop it! I wasn't!"

"Then what were you doing? _Stretching?_"

"I don't know, Professor Snape. _I don't know! All I know was that… I was cold."_

Snape heaved a sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of his chest. He moved to his desk and sank into the seat. He looked angry, still, but tired now, and his inky gaze seemed focused on an object far, far away. "Go clean out the soiled cauldrons by the wall," he ordered mutely.

Hermione had hardly taken a step in that direction when his firm voice held her captive once more.

"No, no, that will not do. You will come here and tell me who or what has forced you to commit these acts."

She was unable to budge. "Professor, I would rather clean—"

"You will come here and we will talk!" Snape shouted.

It wasn't the ire in his voice that yanked at her feet like puppet-strings and dragged her forward until she was only a meter away from him, but rather, an emotion much more profound. She did not know exactly what it was, but she was certain she saw it in his eyes (which she realized were greenish hazel, and not entirely black, as she had supposed) and it reminded her, alarmingly, of herself.

His command had almost carried a tinge of… wanting. Wanting… _something_.

_Oh, Merlin._

Hermione had never thought that Professor Snape, that greasy git of the dungeons, was capable of any feeling other than anger and contempt; now that she understood otherwise, her heart skipped a fiery beat. Everything about him was suddenly magnified until it wrapped about her in a dark embrace, and she was overwhelmed and drowning in his presence.

"What… what do you want to talk about, Professor?" she whispered.

"First, sit," he replied. He nodded to the chair next to the desk.

Hermione eased herself down into the icy, metal seat. And waited.

Several seconds passed before Snape again spoke. "Who made you decide to do these things?"

"No one."

"Then _why_?"

"You can ask me a million times, but I already told you. I don't know."

_Ah, but you _do _know. You just don't want to admit it to him. Or even to yourself._

Snape shook his head wearily, the rough fabric of his black cloak rustling. "What do you want from me? A more lenient homework schedule? A different curriculum? Better marks?"

"Professor…" Her vision blurred with moisture, and she blinked to keep the tears in check. "My marks are already satisfactory."

"And?"

"And it's just that you always…" She couldn't. She bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood. She looked away.

Snape hissed, sounding frustrated. "Must it be so bloody difficult to talk to you? I always what! Speak up or I will take ten points away from Gryf – no, you do not care anymore, Miss Hermione Granger, do you? I can tell that you don't. It's been a long time since you have." His words were almost regretful.

 "It's just that you always…" Hermione gave up. "It's just that you always _ignore me now!" she blurted out in a mad rush. "Ever since that night I went to ask you about Chapter Eighteen! Now I don't exist in your damn class, Severus, no matter what I do. As if I exist anywhere _else_. Well, okay, the bloody _library_, maybe. And even then—" She broke off abruptly. What had she called him? __Severus? _

She could not believe the name had just rolled off of her tongue, so smoothly and so naturally, as though she had known him forever and she was addressing him as equals.

Severus, she contemplated. It was not the name of a professor, but the name of a man. And she dared not venture into that train of thought any further. "Professor. _Professor_ Snape. Forget it."

 "But… you are the Head Girl… Miss Granger," he replied haltingly.

Hermione realized from the rawness in his voice that he was struggling with his own words, flustered on the inside. _How many people have talked to him in this way before? She closed her eyes. "It means nothing."_

"It means many things."

"It means I have good marks, even in Advanced Potions," she said, looking at him again. "For example, Neville. He… you know what he is like, Professor."

"Yes. He needs you."

"Professor Snape…"

"Many people need you," he said, matter-of-factly. "But whom do you need?"

Their conversation was like a dream now; the Hogwarts castle and the surrounding landscape, the histories and the reputations, and all the rules of being the individuals that they were, of living under the skin and hair of that particular role, had faded out like the tide.

Yes, he had called her a tide, not so long ago. She wondered if he, too, had been washed away with it.

"I need…" Hermione began. "I need someone I can talk to. Anyone."

He rested his chin in his closed hand. "You have that Potter boy."

"You don't understand; I can't talk to him; I mean, _really_ talk. We can say words, but they're just random words thrown in the air and they're not anything, Sev—Severus." She let the implications hover in the contracted space between them.

"Words are the glue that bind friendships together," Snape said. He did not correct her.

"Yes, but they give no substance. They only _bind. No… no, they don't even do that." In her mind, Harry was flying through the winter sky on that broomstick. Soaring, so far in the vastness. "They only hide what's supposed to be there. They fill emptiness with a bunch of _stuff_. Useless stuff."_

"Then be mute, Miss Granger."

"I can't. It takes too much away. I need to use words. I can't…" She put her fist to her mouth and bit on a knuckle to stop herself from crying. "I'll lose everything."

"Hush." He lifted his chin from his hand. He stretched his hand to her. He touched her face.

His fingers were as she remembered, dry and warm and callused from the years of bland, ungrateful work. But they were strangely comforting as they sent electric sparks and soothing pulses of warmth at the same time into her.

She whimpered a little, uncontrollably, and nestled her cheek into his palm. He stroked with gentle, almost hesitant caresses her cheek, the tender down of her earlobe, the line of her jaw. He moved lower; his thumb hovered over her parted lips, and she could feel the swirls of her hot breath reflecting back onto her skin.

"Severus," she murmured. They were so close now that she could sense his warmth. Why had she always thought that he was so cold? He was not; he was like a slow fire, constantly burning. She held out a hand and placed it on his chest, over the coarse layers upon layers of his robes, and felt the pressure of his heartbeat, oh so wildly thumping within him.

She didn't know whether to be scared or thrilled by the discovery, but she was certain now that he was only a man, not a villain or a beast or a supernatural entity. Only a man.

She lifted her face to his.

"Hermione," he said. His mouth was curvaceous and solemn. His nose was strong, and his eyes, narrow and fierce and soft all at once. She leaned in. She leaned in, and…

"No," Snape said, rigidly. "No, Hermione."

Frigid dungeon air brutally slapped her where his gentle hand had been. Snape had moved back, pushing his chair with his feet more than a meter away from her. The legs of the metal chair scraped along the stone floor, shrieking, and the sound amplified and squealed like a massive broken record throughout the classroom.

"Leave, Miss Granger."

"My detention—"

"Do you hear me, leave, _now_! Get out of my sight!" Snape roared, lank black hair streaking over his eyes. He was poised in his seat like a predator about to spring. From a sconce somewhere in the wall, a single candle flickered; the orange light splashed like stains across his face. "Leave, Miss Granger," he repeated, raggedly.

Hermione felt herself shaking violently, her mind a blank save for one word: _over. It's over, over, over. _She fumbled to her feet, grasped for her book bag, and retreated through the mess of tables and cauldrons and chairs, until she reached the door.

_Whatever had happened is now over, _she thought again, with a backward glance at the lone man sitting at his desk with his forehead steepled between his fingers.

"Stop dawdling; leave!" His eyes were ever so bleak.

Hermione swallowed the ache in her throat and lifted her chin. "Goodbye, Professor Snape," she said, and opened the door and stepped outside.

And it was only then that time ceased its slow motion and fast-forward jerks, and started to unravel in an orderly fashion. And suddenly she felt so tired, so exhausted, that she wanted to collapse onto the floor and sleep. Sleep and cry.

"Hermione?" The tenor voice was close behind her.

Hermione whirled around. It was Ron, books in hand, approaching her in the dark corridor.

"I didn't know you were out here, Hermione. I was—"

"What do you want?" she snapped.

"To see Snape for some help on my homework," he shrugged. And then a small smile crept to his rosy, youthful face. "Actually, truth is, I was going to see how you were doing in your detention. The bastard really went far this time, didn't he? So maybe, I figured, you needed some company—"

"No thanks; I don't need your pity, Ron!" Hermione screamed before he could finish his sentence. She pushed past him, and ran down the hallway as though the Hounds of Hades were chasing after her. And maybe, she thought through the blood that pounded in her ears, they were.

--

To be continued.


	14. Section Fourteen

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley) 

Section Fourteen

The girl was not in class the following afternoon. In the third row, second desk from the right, only Neville stood at the tabletop cauldron, tentatively stirring and sniffing at a potion that steamed a disconcerting light pink color.

Severus made a motion to stand up from his podium and walk over; he changed his mind and sat back down. The worst that could happen would be Neville's turning (temporarily) into a pink rabbit, and that possibility did not matter enough to the Potions Master to merit his attention.

_Where could she be?_

Perhaps hiding in the library again, as he had so often seen her, hunched over a large, dusty volume and her eyes staring at nothing. Or perhaps scribbling down pages and pages of incomprehensible notes in a handwriting that gradually degenerated into loops and daydreamed doodles.

He noticed that he had stabbed his quill into a parchment advertising for the upcoming End of the Year Gala. Why Albus would still send these useless reminders to him, year after endless year, was anybody's guess. Sighing, he plucked out the mauled quill and tossed it into the nearest inkpot.

Did _she _ever go to these events, he wondered as he crumpled up the advertisement in his fist. Did she _voluntarily_ go? He knew there was a boy several years ago, a brutely thing by the name of Victor, who had once taken her by the arm and walked with her down the Yule Ball carpet…

A black, nasty feeling that Severus was too afraid to identify made itself known in his heart, and he threw aside the advertisement with a scowl.

She was lonely. Anyone could see that. So how could that Krum fellow bear to leave her so pitilessly, after she had so willingly given him her heart, and even perhaps her body…? Ungrateful, inconsiderate bastard, that Krum. And she, too, was a damn fool for throwing her life away into books and such degenerate and uncouth men.

_Stop it, Severus._

He was practically quaking in fury. His thoughts were scaring himself nowadays.

A sharp explosion made itself known in the room, and Severus focused his vision to see that, without _her_ supervision, Neville had indeed managed to create every known side effect to every known potion that was brewed in his class. A small, sniveling pink rabbit now hopped frantically on the top of the desk, crying out for help in its tiny rabbit squeaks.

"Little bunny Foofoo!" Draco Malfoy was the first to laugh in delight, closely followed by the dimwitted guffawing of his two dunderhead friends. "I never knew Longbottom liked bunnies so much he'd be willing to turn into one!"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Severus replied. He could see the shadows of the young man's father in Malfoy's malicious blue eyes. "Shut up before I turn _you_ into one." He swept from his podium and strode to where Neville hopped in panic on the desk. He picked up the little ball of fluff by the base of its neck and held him out, kicking, to the class. "Someone take Mr. Longbottom to the hospital ward."

There was a prolonged pause of thirty blankly staring pairs of eyes before Parvati raised her hand. "I will, Professor."

"Then hurry up, Miss Patil, before Mr. Longbottom sprouts teeth," he retorted in annoyance. Why was the class so utterly slow to do anything? If _she_ had been here, she would have been already halfway to Pomfrey's with Neville by now; she would have saved him from the sour silence.

He remembered too clearly the way she had stood by his door, peering over her shoulder, her eyes and plump lips sparkling with a barely suppressed hope, before he had shouted at her to get out. He shoved Neville roughly into Parvati's arms and stalked back to his podium. A wisp of light brown hair had curled and rested at the base of her ear; he had touched her there as though touching a phantom from a dream, and she had not moved away. She had not even _flinched_.

It was impossible… and yet it wasn't.

"Next time, can't we turn him into a pig?" Draco was saying. "Then he'd truly look like himself! And then we can turn that Mudblood Hermione into a mouse and have them run after each other—"

Severus spun to face the boy. It took more self-control than he had expected to refrain from sending that Malfoy abomination into the back wall with a well-aimed punch. "Mr. Malfoy, a hundred points from Slytherin for acting like a little _shit_."

The point system was so juvenile, really.

--

To be continued.

Note: The image of Hermione looking over her shoulder is inspired by the painting "Girl With A Pearl Earring," by Johannes Vermeer.


	15. Section Fifteen

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley) 

Section Fifteen

Two hours later, he found himself in the headmaster's office, being offered a cup of herbal tea.

"Honestly, Severus, this is the first time that a professor has taken away the chance of his own house's winning the House Cup," Albus Dumbledore said, simultaneously nibbling on a cookie that flecked small dark crumbs into his snowy beard. "And the most surprising thing is that it comes from _you_. Are you sure you're all right these days? Have some tea. It's good for you."

Severus retrieved the saucer from the old man's thin, powdery white hands and took a scorching gulp. "I do not want to know what he'll grow up to be."

"Draco?"

"Yes."

"What was that you called him? A little… 'dropping'? Except, of course, you used much harsher language that we do not usually condone in students, much less esteemed faculty members."

"He deserved it, every ounce of it," Severus replied glumly. "I'm not apologizing."

Albus dabbed at his mouth with the corner of his robe sleeve. "Realize that it's not exactly _I_ who will be suffering the brunt of this incident, mind you. The one to whom you should be apologizing is yourself; Draco is part ofSlytherin, and you _are_ the head of Slytherin, you know," He chuckled. "My, My. You, Severus, have seemed to have turned against your own house. I simply _must_ remember to write this one down. It is quite bizarre, indeed."

"I will deal with my own consequences."

"I know. You were always best at being self-sufficient.  But how shall Lucius Malfoy react once he hears what has been said to his son? This incident will invariably cause some friction between Hogwarts and the Malfoys…"

"That's not my problem."

"Merlin's bones, Severus, nothing is ever your problem," Albus rasped. "I may be old, but I'm not blind (at least not yet). You would not want to purposely stir up trouble. This is not completely about Draco. What _is_ it about?"

_Damn him._ Severus downed the blistering tea and put the saucer on the table. "It's Hermione Granger," he confessed, too drained to weave any more fibs. "She has been struggling in Potions. It's a mystery to me why a young woman of her intelligence and past academic history cannot handle several chapters out of a textbook. I worry that Malfoy has been psychologically abusing her outside of class with his taunting." Well, it was a half-truth, at least, he thought, resentfully.

"Ah." Albus nodded and settled back into the sofa. "This is indeed very observant and even _kind_ of you. But I'm afraid you are wrong."

"I see."

"It's not Draco, but Transfigurations that has been causing Hermione's slight dip in grades."

"What?" _This_ was completely unexpected. 

"She hasn't told you, Severus? She is taking an extra course in Transfigurations – and, mind you, upper level Transfigurations can be infamously mind-boggling (I know from first hand experience) – and she can no longer handle her work load."

"But that does not give her the right to… to – _flake – _in Potions."

"Of course not. But it does give her the right to drop. Completely within school rules. Do you want more t—"

"What are you saying, Albus?"

Albus smiled and silently shook his head. "Severus, you _must_ pull yourself out of those dungeons and make an appearance at a staff meeting once in a while. You do not know that yesterday evening Hermione requested to drop potions? I tried to convince her otherwise, but she insisted. She already has enough potions credits on her record to pass Hogwarts, so I had no choice but to relent." He picked up the tray of cookies. "Try some, Severus, you look pale."

"No. No, I'm fine," he said, hollowly.

Albus shrugged, and took another cookie for himself. "In either case, _do_ find some time to apologize to Draco some time this century, will you?"

But Severus didn't hear the old man.

_She had dropped _his_ class._

He felt as if he had been struck by an anvil.

--

Never to be continued. Sorry.

Just _kidding_! Of course I'll continue. But I will not updating next week because I have finals (insert sad noise here). I _will_ still be updating, however, the week after next.

Note: If you just can't get enough of UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension) I suggest watching the movies "The Remains Of The Day," "Mesmer," or "Girl With A Pearl Earring" (when it comes out). 

Final Note: Thank you all for your reviews! They mean very much to me, and all the comments just keep me going.


	16. Section Sixteen

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley) 

Section Sixteen

Two months without seeing a trace of the man known as Severus Snape had almost wiped out his existence from Hermione Granger's memory. Almost. If she didn't count her nightly dreams and daily musings, unwanted visions that made her redden in shame at their sensual vividness, he was completely gone from her life.

Damn those dreams.

So he had touched her. And so perhaps those touches had not been entirely unpleasant. But it gave her no right, even subconsciously, to imagine those tapered hands sliding along her back, the curve of her waist, her…

He was _Snape_! He was greasy old Snape (who, in reality, was not that old, she reminded herself) who lived in a dungeon and never washed his hair. 

She was going mad, she was sure of it, even without having to set foot in Potions ever again. She couldn't begin to imagine what it would have been like if she had not dropped the class.

She immersed herself in her studies, her extra Transfigurations course. After school, she dragged out the box of Chinese Checkers that Neville had never really learned to play, and spent three days teaching him, and later, when he had gotten the gist of it, hours and hours losing herself into the miniature battles that unfolded onto the metal board. 

"Do we have to play _again_?" Neville had complained sometime during the fourth week. "We _always_ play this game."

"I won't help you on your homework if you don't," she had icily replied, feeling a nauseating wave of self-loathing ooze upon her, only to be firmly pushed aside.

What was it that Snape had said? _"And neither should you be using my class as a means of gaining personal glory or forging friendships." _She didn't care anymore about what was right or wrong. She had already blatantly crossed all of her moral boundaries in the presence of that git; nothing really mattered now except receiving excellent marks and keeping several people around her to talk to when depression threatened to devour her… which, she figured despondently, was most all the time now.

She felt cruel; no – she _was_ cruel. So when Ron finally pulled her aside during the first Saturday of March, asking her in a serious, low voice, "Is everything all right, 'Mione?" she said, "I just have too much work to do in that new Transfigurations class," and excused herself for the library, her haven.

The library that afternoon was uncommonly empty, for the fact that the sun was cheerily shining for the first time since the series of rainstorms and fogs, and everyone was outside enjoying picnics or games of Quidditch.

Hermione wandered in; the familiar towers of books loomed bleakly to the high ceiling in the same, drafty fashion throughout the whole year, regardless of rain or shine. She nodded absently to the librarian and made her way through the labyrinth of filled shelves to the Restricted Section in the corner of the room. One of the few perks of being Head Girl was that she was allowed almost anywhere now; she possessed almost as many privileges as the faculty.

Hermione reached the velvet red enclosures, nimbly stepped over them, and proceeded to browse through the shelves. 

Hemmingway, Wilde, Tennyson, Huxley.

Of the few novels in the Restricted Section, most were of Muggle authors, perhaps to discourage the pureblood students from overly embracing the Muggle culture and neglecting Wizard literature. But Hermione had already read the majority of them during her summers at home, and numerous courses in Muggle Studies.

All except one.

She saw it on the second shelf from the top, a thick leather-bound volume that read "The Complete Poems of William Butler Yeats" in crumbling gold foil on the tattered spine. Yeats. She had always managed to avoid that book in the past; not purposely, of course, but each time she wanted it someone had already checked it out, and each time it was there, she seemed to have developed an interest in a different book.

This time she stood on tiptoe and tried, futilely, to reach it. It was just several centimeters beyond her fingertips. Perhaps if she used her wand… she realized she had left it on her dresser in the dorm.

She hopped and managed to clamber for the book briefly before gravity brought her down. She gave another hop; when she landed her shoe twisted on the carpet and she fell backwards.

And into something soft and warm. Arms. She gasped. An embrace.

She found her footing and twisted herself free.

Severus Snape.

"Looking for something, Miss Granger?" he asked calmly.

She wondered if she was dreaming. He was standing close behind her, in his usual attire of black robes, the occasional peeks of white cloth at the cuffs and at the neck, and shadows. Lots of shadows. 

Two months contracted themselves into a single day.

He had told her to leave. He had told her to leave after doing _that_ to her with his hand, making her believe that he had cared. Bastard. Greasy, vile, insufferable bastard.

"Good day, Professor," Hermione responded, tightly, the anger gripping her throat like a gradually contracting vise.

He smelled faintly of dried mountain herbs and cinnamon. Hermione took a step back, only to be met with the barrier of a thousand different books. The thread-thin passageways were made for one person, not two. And all of it was his fault. She hated him for it, for his musky sweet scent.

"Making the most of your privileges, I see, Miss Granger," Snape drawled sarcastically, gesturing to the Restricted Section plaque above them.

Yes, the Potions Master's brain was most definitely that of a robot, Hermione thought. He controlled precisely what to remain inside and what to flush out. For the first and last time in her life, she wished she could be like him. "What do you want?"

"If you must know, I came here to _read_," he returned. "Last time I checked, this was a library."

"Well, you're in the wrong section, _Professor_."

"That is not for you to decide."

She snorted coldly. "Everything here is Muggle literature."

"The ramblings of lower life forms can be very interesting at times," he replied, with a lift of his shoulders. "Good for a laugh. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Granger…" He stepped forward, until he was almost pressed against her. "Perhaps you did not hear me the first time. Move out of the way."

He was so _tall_. Hermione had to crane her head back all the way to keep eye contact with him, and even then, she estimated, he would need to lean down considerably if their mouths were to meet.

She blanched, and immediately flushed. She could not believe that thoroughly disgusting notion had come to pass. Yes, disgusting. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. She moved to the side.

Easily reaching up, Snape plucked the Yeats book from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. "Good day, Miss Granger." He started to leave.

"Hey!" Hermione yelled in protest. "What do you think you're doing?"

Snape stopped in his tracks, turned to her, and heaved an impatient breath. "I am going to read this book," he said in theatrical exaggeration.

"No, you're not. This is _my_ book."

He took the volume from under his arm and thumbed through it. "Funny I do not see your name anywhere—"

"You _know_ I was trying to get it. You saw me. You _know_ this belongs to me," she said. Anger was keeping her bold. "Give it back."

"I am losing my patience with you, Miss Granger," Snape whispered in response, his voice smooth and dark like black velvet.

She could not stand him anymore. She moved forward and grabbed the book. Their fingers met and more memories returned like layers of a flood, but she did not care. The memories only made her increasingly more enraged at him and at herself, and the fury kept her from crumpling into his arms, kept her strong. "Give. It. Back."

"Stop this."

"I will if you give it back."

"You're acting like a child."

"So are you."

Snape's nostrils flared. "Is this how you address _all_ your professors now, Miss Granger," he seethed, "or am I the only one to whom you bestow this – _wonderful_ – honor?"

"You're no longer my professor."

That stopped him cold. Something flickered across his face, a ghost of an expression that was gone as soon as it came. And then he said, in an odd tone that sent fine shivers down her spine, "Ah, yes. I see you've finally found the time to tell me about this unexpected little change…_ two months _after you made it!"

_Oh, Merlin…_ the only word that Hermione could attach to that expression, to that odd little tone, was _hurt_. It sounded so foreign coming from _his_ lips, but there was no mistaking that distinct sound of a bleeding wound being drenched in proverbial lemon juice.

_But why? _Hermione shoved the question away.

"I was busy," she said, less vehemently than she had wanted to. "I mean, you knew already, so what was the point?"

"Courtesy, Miss Granger."

She couldn't help herself. "Oh, tell me what you know about _that_, Severus. I'm sure you've had a _lifetime_ of experience in the field of being courteous."

And he glared at her with inky pupils that set every one of her nerve endings on fire. "You are out of your league, Miss Granger. I may no longer be your professor, but that does not mean I do not have authority over you."

"You don't have the _right_ to decide who has authority over me."

"But I have the right to expel you from this school."

"So it's blackmail now?" she practically screamed, her anger increasing by leaps and bounds.

"No," he said, "it is the truth. You believe you are invincible and exempt from every rule, because you are young. But rules do apply to you, and consequences do ensue, Hermione Granger, as distasteful as the news may be."

"Consequences for what?" she said, a little shakily. And she thought, _Oh God, no. The place where I hoped we'd never go. We're going there now._

"You know for what," he said, with an unreadable gaze. "For what happened the last time I talked to you. Two months ago."

Damn it, but he could be so bloody frank. Her heart threatened to burst or jump out of her ribcage. "I…" she began. And then a thought came to her like a light bulb being flicked on in the darkness. "Yes, you're exactly right, Severus. What are the consequences for what _you _did, hmm? Because, as I recall, _I_ didn't do anything – how do you say – 'out of my league' during that time we spent after school."

Whatever gaze he had regarded her with, whatever potential softness had been there, was instantly clouded over and frozen in a glare of unspeakable coldness. His eyes thinned to slits beneath a furrowed brow. "And, pray tell, just what did _I_ do?" he asked, ominously.

"You know full well," she replied.

They were speaking in fervent, heated breaths, unmoving from their proximity from each other, their hands entertained on the book they trapped between them. Had they been here before, Hermione thought, half in despair and half in the thrill that coursed through her. And why were they here again, so soon and so effortlessly?

"Well, if _you_ so confidently think that I know full well, then why don't you enlighten me?" Snape was saying.

"Fine, I will."

"Go ahead. I'm waiting; I don't have all day. What is it?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "This," she said, and removed her hand from the book and stroked his face. If she didn't die right then and there from the heart attack she was sure was going to happen to her, then the look in his face would kill her for certain. Or, at the very least, melt her into a puddle on the ground. His eyes were endless pools, burning, glistening, and staring at her in pure wonder. His lips was parted by a hair's width, and he moved them imperceptibly, as though he was trying to speak, but was too choked with emotion to utter a sound. 

She ran her fingertips down his slightly sandpapery jaw, across the smoothness of his mouth. He kissed her fingers then – oh, Merlin, his lips were so soft – and she whispered, "Remember?" She danced her touch along his proud nose, his brows, his temples, where a strong pulse throbbed. "Remember? This is what you did to me. And this is what it felt like."

He closed his eyes. "I see," he murmured. "Well it's not… _too_ bad."

Her heart swooned. She slipped her hand into his hair; it was surprisingly soft and silky, like kittens' fur.

"You were so frightened that day I thought you would faint," he continued. "And now… you're… considerably less frightened, I suppose."

"That's not true at all."

"Ah, then you keep it from me. You've grown in the two months I've missed you, Miss Granger." He opened his eyes.

And that was when Albus Dumbledore came.

He swished into view at the end of the rows of bookshelves, in a robe of white, gold, and crimson. "Oh, hello—"

They jumped apart and backpedaled to the opposite ends of the shelves.

Hermione turned her smile into a grin, directing it at the elderly headmaster. "Good afternoon, Headmaster Dumbledore. What a surprise." What surprised her was that she was still capable of words. "What brings you here today, Headmaster, when it's such a beautiful day outside?"

Dumbledore shuffled forward and gave her an acknowledging nod. "In fact, _you_, Hermione. I knew I'd find you here."

"Oh, I was just… just, you know—"

"Looking for books," he finished. "What else can you do in a library, my dear?" He winked at her. "How is your new schedule, Hermione?"

"Wonderful! I'm getting my homework done. Everything's great."

"Then it is good news. Good news." Dumbledore cleared his throat briskly. "All right –  that was all I wanted to know. You may go about your business."

"There's, uh, nothing else?"

"No, Hermione, I do not want to disturb you on a Saturday. Good afternoon, my dear." He nodded to her again. "And good afternoon to you too, Severus." He turned on his heels, and scuffled out of sight.

A whole minute passed before they dared to breathe again. 

Snape spoke first. "Well."

"Well."

"I wasted enough of my time here already, Miss Granger," he said without a trace of aggravation.

 "Yes."

"Good day," he said, softly. He turned, and walked swiftly down the hall in the opposite direction as Dumbledore. 

He had almost disappeared from sight when Hermione remembered. "Hey, what about my book?"

"Look, it's mine to borrow this time," Snape said, pausing in his stride and glancing back. "It has never been yours."

"That's not fair!"

He sighed. "Life is not fair, Miss Granger; do try to live with it." He paused. "Speaking of which, I still have not forgotten the four additional hours of detention you owe me from two months ago. Discipline, Miss Granger. Show up late tomorrow and it'll be four hours more. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

They looked at each other.

"Yes," Hermione said.

--

To be continued.


	17. Section Seventeen

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley) 

Section Seventeen

They had returned from a game on the fields and Harry was explaining to a thoroughly engrossed Ginny about the minor nuances of Quidditch, when Hermione burst into the Gryffindor Common Room. 

"Who in the _world_ set the password to be 'batty bats'?" she said, promptly falling into the nearest sofa. "It's so morbid, don't you guys agree?"

Ron broke off his conversation with Neville and raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, we agree."

"And _you_ were the one who set the password to 'batty bats,' 'Mione," Harry pointed out. "Have you forgotten that the only person who could change the password is the Head Girl?"

Hermione leaned back into the sofa, arms outspread on the cool leather, and sighed. "Well I changed it again. Password's now 'fuzzy hearts,' you guys."

"See, Harry? _See_? This is the _only_ reason why I'd rather have a Head Boy than a Head Girl," Ron groaned in response. "I'd rather sneak into the Slytherin camp than say 'fuzzy hearts' each time I have to go to my room."

"Hermione, seriously," Neville cut in. "If we continue to progress at your rate, the next time the password's going to be 'I like to kiss boys.' And I'm definitely not going to say that. So can we have a normal password for once?"

"Oh, shush. It _is_ normal. Stop doubting my authority." She grinned.

"Dropping Potions has taken a negative impact on you, hasn't it?" Harry replied, and took off his sweaty glasses to polish them on the corner of his shirt.

Hermione's grin inverted. "What do you mean?"

"You're acting more like the wonderful Severus Snape every day."

Somehow, the sound of that name on the lips of another had hardened the syllables and made them clatter contemptuously through Hermione's ears. It was a soft name, she thought, indignantly, before she could control herself. It was not supposed to be spat out, but rather, to be whispered…

She was irritated, suddenly, at either Harry or herself. It was easier to glare at Harry. "Your jokes are never funny," she snapped.

"It's because all Harry likes is Quidditch," Ginny said in a high, teasing voice. "If he never gets off that broom, he'll never know what it's like to get _on_—"

Ron gave his sister a shove. "You're gross."

"That's girls for you," Harry said, but his cheeks were glowing in amusement. He put on his glasses. "Well, I'm off to shower."

"Ginny, you stay here," Ron added.

Ginny blushed a shade of deep red from her hairline to the base of her freckled neck. "_You're_ the one who's turning out to be more like Snape, you, you – little _shit." Then she giggled, and the boys joined in._

Hermione blinked in confusion, staring in turn at the four laughing faces. "I don't get it."

"Draco deserved it," Neville said.

"Blimey, it was so damn funny. You included, Bunny Man," Ron said.

"Hey!"

"What's going on?" Hermione demanded. "Do you guys know something I don't?"

Harry coolly patted her on the shoulder before turning to walk to the door that led to the showers. "Hermione, if you're in the library all the time, you're going to be missing out on all the fun," he said without looking around, and disappeared behind the door.

Hermione's gaze lingered in his absence; she curled her toes inside of her shoe and quickly glanced at Ron. "Okay, _you tell me then." She found that her voice was terse. _

"The day after you left Potions, Snape went totally bonkers," Ron explained, beaming. "It was the funniest thing. Neville turned himself into a pink rabbit, and Draco made a joke about you turning into a rat and chasing Neville or something. And then Snape got so mad he called Draco a little shit, and took a hundred points from his own house. Draco was so humiliated he transferred to Defense Against the Dark Arts the next week. 'Mione, it was all over the school. I can't believe you didn't know about it."

"I… must have been too busy to listen to Slytherin gossip," Hermione answered, falteringly. Even though she knew it was unfounded, a feeling of unease and anxiousness had gradually started to churn in her stomach. She crossed her arms in front of her and toyed with a loose lock of hair that hung over her shoulder. 

 "Well, 'Mione, you missed it," Ginny was saying, with a rueful shake of her head. "The scandal's completely blown over now, unfortunately. Draco's back to acting like he's the king of the school. And Snape awarded three hundred points to Slytherin the next day. I mean, what can you expect from those bastards?"

"Exactly," Hermione echoed absently, pulling at her hair. She remembered that she had detention with the Potions Master tomorrow afternoon, and the warm anxiety in her stomach intensified. 

--

To be continued.

Note: I appreciate you guy's reviews _so much_. They make finals a lot easier! Oh, yeah, I couldn't control myself. I said I wasn't going to write during finals but I gave in to temptation.  About the short chapters thing: due to my stupidity, I originally envisioned this story to be a super-short one-or-two-shot thing. But then I changed my mind. And I don't want to change the format… haha! Sorry about that; maybe when I'm done I'll re-chapter everything. (Long chapters = fewer updates, remember. Tee hee!)

Another Note: Claire! I see you on the Rickman message-boards! Wassup? It's a small world!


	18. Section Eighteen

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley) 

Section Lucky Number Eighteen

But the next day, when Hermione stepped into the chilly atmosphere of the dungeons for the first time in two months, she found the Potions classroom occupied not by Snape, but by Professor Trelawney. The tall, skinny woman folded her spectacles clumsily from her face and tucked them into her shirt pocket. She told Hermione to come back tomorrow; Snape was away on urgent and unexpected business, she said, her eyes darting restlessly. Hermione left the room with her head boiling in bewilderment.

The little scene unfolded itself again the next afternoon. And the next. And the next.

By the end of the week, she was almost certain that he was avoiding her. But _he_ had been the one who had demanded that she come, Hermione thought as she stomped up the stairs; her fourth failed attempt at fulfilling that damned detention. Maybe that moment in the library meant nothing to him…

And why should it? That moment equaled nothing. In fact, Hermione decided, _nothing_ had happened in that library. There _had been_ no moment. She was angry once more. It was only his way of playing the game, his own plan of attack at getting her back for all of the shameful things (things she couldn't even now bear to think about) she had done to him. 

So that was how it was._ Severus Snape_, she said to herself, and her vision dissipated wetly as tears gathered like dew in her eyes._ Severus Snape, be that way. Be the way you've always been. See if I care._

But it was not quite that way.

She was making her blind, furious flight to the Gryffindor Common Room when the voices began. At first they were scattered, here and there, among a group of Ravenclaws gossiping in a corner, a pair of Hufflepuffs strolling in from the lawn, or a pair of Slytherins chatting at the doorway of a classroom. Bits of fragmented words coming from all around her.

She mentally shook herself, feeling a shiver run across the back of her neck as she pieced the words together in her mind. Rumors. Unfounded rumors. They had to be.

She walked on. All she needed to do was to enter her room, and she would be free from all this turmoil. Just two more flights of stairs…

But now the voices were growing in volume and quantity, and they were impossible to ignore, impossible to brush aside as rumor. And by the time Hermione Granger had reached the doors of the Great Hall, it seemed as if the whole school was saying it, the whole population of Hogwarts trickling like individual streams into one huge, devastating river.

Hermione stumbled. She fell against a wall. She was never going to make it to her room after all, she thought, vaguely, clawing at the stones for balance. 

And then someone went up to her – it could have been Harry or Ginny or Neville; she couldn't tell – and said to her face the words that surrounded her like a swarm, "Did you hear? Did you hear, Hermione? Professor Snape got hit with the Cruciatus Curse. No one knows who did it. They say he's dying."

_They say he's dying._

It was the final, fatal sting.

Hermione fainted.

--

To be continued.


	19. Section Nineteen

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"No matter what road you travel on, you seem to go through the darkest places." (PM Dawn) 

Section Nineteen

Hermione Granger drifted back to consciousness amidst the fresh, bitter scent of herbs and cleaning solutions. She sensed that she was in Madame Pomfrey's hospital ward; it was a place she was unfortunately too familiar with. Had she been Petrified, she wondered in that jumbled moment on the verge of leaving sleep. Did they finally manage to unfreeze her from…

No – her mind was clearer now, her memories sorted – and that event had been one from years and years past. She settled herself into the present and realized that she was here for a different reason.

Two male voices were buzzing like bees above her head.

Hermione blearily opened her eyes and saw two blurry shapes that she identified as Ron and Harry hovering in her peripheral vision. She was lying in a narrow hospital bed underneath starched white sheets, and the boys were quietly talking over her from their chairs on the opposite sides of her pillow. 

"But I don't understand why she would faint?" That was Ron. "All I said to her was—"

"I still think we should let Dumbledore know about this." Harry. "She says its schoolwork, but, Ron, do you honestly believe that anymore? She's covering up something."

"Blimey, Harry, do you have to put it that way? You sound like she's planning to kill you."

"Christ, it doesn't matter _how I say it. I'm trying to _help_ her, and she's going to kill _herself_ if she keeps this up."_

Ron made a sound in his throat. "Then what do you say we do?"

 "Talk to Dumbledore. Tell _him_ to talk to that bugger Snape." Harry let out a breath between thinned lips and absently scratched his scar. "Snape. It's always Snape. Why is _Snape always a part of this? Ron. Do you think—"_

An urge to cough suddenly seized Hermione, and she did, loudly. Harry broke off mid-sentence, and two pairs of eyes were instantly focused on her.

"'Mione! You're finally awake!" Ron said, grinning.

"How…" Her voice came out as a decidedly pathetic croak. "How long have I been here?"

"Three or four hours, at least," he replied. "What the bloody hell happened out there, 'Mione?"

It all came back to her like a vivid color movie. The trips to the empty dungeons, the whispers from the students in the halls, the words that accompanied her as she passed out: "Professor Snape got hit with the Cruciatus Curse. No one knows who did it. They say he's dying."

Merlin, it all came back. And she felt like she was going to faint, again.

She forced herself to stay awake. "Was that you who was talking to me, Ron?" she demanded. "You know, right before I…"

"Yes, I was just going to look for you in the library—"

"You said Snape got hit with Cruciatus? Are you sure?"

Ron gaped at her as Harry sat back in his chair, sighing. "Aren't you worried about _yourself_?" Ron shrilled.

Hermione rattled off the first excuse that came to her tongue; years of experience had made the task effortless. "It's probably dehydration. I never drink enough water."

"Do you want me to get a glass for you?" Harry offered without moving.

"No thanks, I'm fine now," she said. "In fact, I feel perfect. I think I should leave. Where did Pomfrey say Snape is?" She made a motion to sit, only to be blocked by Ron's arms.

"Never mind that Slytherin git. You're going to_ rest, Hermione," he said, attempting to ease her down. _

She wriggled free from his hands and shoved him aside, more roughly than she had intended to. She was inexplicably annoyed with him, and the confused and offended expression on his face only incensed her even more. Grunting, she ducked under the barrier of the two boys, flung away the blanket, and struggled to her feet. She rocked woozily; swiftly and firmly found her footing.

_They say he's dying,_ she thought. _Severus Snape is dying._

Harry and Ron had both gotten to their feet and were observing her as though warily watching a caged alien from behind a glass windowpane.

Something snapped. Hermione exploded. "What's the matter with you guys? Do you guys _care_ that one of your professors is _dying_? Yeah, okay, so he's a Slytherin – who _cares_? _Who bloody cares_ what color his flag is! We're not _ten_ years old anymore, okay? I'm not going to stand around and _cheer_ that Snape just got attacked because he's head of Slytherin and I'm part of Gryffindor! The whole house rivalry thing is a _game, okay? An interesting _game _to keep the first and second years on their toes. And Cruciatus __isn't. And, and – oh, just __grow up." She flung her fingers into her rebellious mane._

There was very prolonged silence, in which the sounds of an outdoors Quidditch match could be heard distantly through the walls. Then Harry spoke. "I'm going to find Madame Pomfrey."

Ron continued without missing a beat, "Harry, she's at the staff meeting. I'll go with you—" 

"No, you're coming with _me," Hermione said, taking his bony wrist in an unrelenting grasp. "We're going to look for Snape and see what's happened to him."_

"You don't honestly believe he's _dying, Hermione!" Ron shouted, his gaze flitting despondently to Harry as the dark-haired boy excused himself from the ward. He miserably withered as Harry departed from sight. "It was probably some prank. And besides Snape is under the care of the hospital ward, and everything's going to be hunky dory in a day or two," he grumbled._

"Then why is everybody so hush-hush about it, if it's so 'hunky dory'?" she returned, letting go of his wrist and crossing her arms. "It's obvious that the professors were trying to hide the news from everyone, and it _accidentally_ slipped out against their will. Would they do that if all Snape had was a case of the cramps? No! And…" She swallowed. "You _know_ it isn't a prank. No one would use Crutiatus for a prank."

"Fine," he said, moodily. "But, 'Mione – _Snape_! I don't see why—" He shook himself as though he were waging an inner struggle. "Look. Hermione. Madame Pomfrey has everything under control. When has she not? The reason why the teachers didn't tell everyone is probably because they didn't want the school to panic. And, anyway, what's _Snape_ to you—"

That was when Hermione spied the door in the far corner of the ward. The corner was so dark and suffused with shadows that the rickety wooden board seemed to blend straight into the wall, but it was opened a crack, and a sliver of reddish light flickered out from the thin border.

Hermione held up a hand. "Ron. Over there."

"Geez, 'Mione, you think he's in…"

She was already running towards it, brushing aside curtains and veering around empty hospital beds. Her heart, she realized, was pounding and squeezing and wrenching violently. Thousands of questions flooded her head; how was he? What would he look like? Was he really… _dying_?

Four hours ago she had been so mad at him, she thought through the haze. Mad at what she had believed was his damn selfish pride and vile attitude. Oh, Merlin, if she had known he was _here_…

She reached the door and flung it open before hesitation had any chance to take over.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

The room was small, dimly lit by a single candle, and so sweltering hot the air rippled. Hermione was reminded of the inside of a suffocating steam bath, and she gagged and gasped for breath. She wiped the steamy fog from her eyes and blinked.

She saw now at the end of the room a tiny bed heaped with dark-hued velvet blankets. In the bed was lump the size of a man. Over the folds of the blanket she could only see the top of the man's head, the strands of lank black hair splayed across the white pillowcase, but there was only one man in all of England with hair like that.

Severus Snape.

"Professor?" she stammered.

There was no answer from the shape on the bed.

Hermione forgot about the unbearable heat in the room and rushed to him. She fell into a kneeling position at the bedside, shook him. "Professor Snape. Oh, God, Severus, please."

"I think he's unconscious, 'Mione," came Ron's hesitant answer.

She whirled around. The boy had slipped inside, and was standing and fidgeting a full three meters away from her as if he was too afraid to come any closer. "He's unconscious," Ron resumed quietly, "but he's alive. He's shivering; look."

Yes, Snape _was_ shivering. The tremors ran in waves throughout his thin frame, and Hermione yearned to put her arms about him and embrace him with all of the energy she had left in her body. The Potions Master was _not_ supposed to be shivering. He was supposed to be strong and snide and sarcastic and calm, and he was even supposed to bea complete bastard to her, but for Merlin's sake, he was not supposed to be _unconscious_!

It took every fiber of self-control to stop the tears that burned at her eyes from falling, from throwing her body onto him. Ron, she reminded herself. Ron.

"We have to get some of these blankets off of him. It's too hot in here," she said in a passably collected tone. She lifted an edge of the first blanket and attempted to drag it off; it was shockingly heavy and she only succeeded in nudging it. "Come on, Ron. Help me."

"Hermione…"

"Help me!" she said, feeling dangerously close to losing control. "It's so bloody hot in here and there aren't any windows. Why – why would they do this to him? _I _can hardly breathe as it is. They're going to kill him! We have to—"

"—Hermione, listen—"

"He's running a fever!"

"Will you _listen!_"

She had never in her life heard Ron Weasley use that kind of voice. It was… raw – a complete revolution from the candy-tinted jokes and quips she had been so used to hearing from him. She clamped her mouth shut. "Okay," she said.

Ron's chest was heaving. "They're trying to_ sweat _the sickness out of him, okay? It's a far Eastern practice. When – when conventional wizard and Muggle medicines can't cure a disease – _especially_ a fever – you can sometimes cure it by being in an extremely high temperature. The heat denatures the protein in the virus or something. Geez, 'Mione, Madame Pomfrey's not putting him in the private ward to _kill _him."

"Who told you about the protein thing?"

"Neville."

"What? _Neville?_ _I_ never told him that!"

"He does his Potions homework by himself," Ron retorted.

Oh. Under normal circumstances she would have pursued the matter further, but now Hermione let it pass fleetingly through her mind. She turned back to Severus. Despite all of their shouts he was still unconscious, shaking. She held out a hand, wiped away a few waves of soft hair from his temple, and pressed her palm to his damp forehead. 

His skin was so fevered she almost removed her hand.  "Ron, he's burning up," she whispered through a choke. "Neville doesn't know what he's saying, that brainless son of a bitch…"

There came the sound of a small moan. Snape. He stirred.

"Professor?" Her heart leaped.

The Potions Master muttered something incomprehensible, shifted under the weight of the blankets, and rolled over.

And Hermione saw his face clearly for the first time. It was ashen gray and covered in a sheen of glistening perspiration. His eyes were screwed shut, his brows knitted. His lips were twisted in a grimace; she hoped it was an expression from a nightmare, and not from actual, physical pain.

_Cruciatus… _

How can one even begin to describe the pure agony?

"Severus?" Hermione managed again in a dry sob. She knew that Ron was behind her, but it was impossible to pretend to care any longer. "Severus, can you hear me?" She stroked his burning, burning cheek. _Please remember…_

He moaned again, hoarsely, but did not awaken. Instead his arm reached out from underneath the covers (he was wearing the simple white shirt she had seen that night when she had been in his chambers) and wrapped itself around her.

There was one thing Hermione Granger could think of to do. She fell into Severus' desperate, heated embrace.

For about two seconds.

Ron was immediately at her side, prying the Potions Master's hands off of her. "He can't—"

"Stop it, Ron!" she found herself screaming, jostling the boy away in fury. "Stop! He's _delirious_; he doesn't know what he's doing!"

"_I_ know what he's doing!" Ron said, regaining his balance and scrambling to her. "He's trying to—"

She shoved him and sent him sprawling to the carpeted floor with a strength she didn't even know she possessed. "He's _ill, _Ron! He needs comfort!"

"No." Ron was fumbling in his inner jacket pocket. "No, I can't let this happen." He whipped out something long and thin. It was his wand.

To Hermione, events now unfolded as though they were scenes from a horrible television show, as though they were performed by actors who only resembled the people they once were. She could no longer recognize the soul that was hers, the soul that chose to bestow its affections so blatantly, so blindly.

Merlin, how she wished she could run to Ron. Right now, the two of them could leave the sweltering torture of this place and flee to the circle of friendship and oblivion that was the Gryffindor Common Room. Flee and forget, like children.

Memories flashed in her mind: the three of them, Harry, Ron and herself, in wide eyed awe as they passed through the gates of Hogwarts. Snickering with fellow Gryffindors as the evil professor with the greasy hair and hooked nose stalked by like a scoundrel out of a comic book. The pure exhilaration of watching a Quidditch match…

It was over.

"No," Hermione was screaming, holding onto Severus with both arms. "He's already gotten hexed once; he can't handle another—"

Too late. "_Corpus morendus!_" Ron declared, pointing his wand unerringly at Snape.

And Snape collasped limply like a puppet that had been cut of its strings.

Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. He was dead. Ron had killed him. He was…

"'Mione," Ron panted, tucking his wand into his jacket, "he's only going to be out for a little while. It might actually even help him stop shivering…" He eyed her suspiciously. "Don't you know this charm, Hermione? You look like I—"

"_You killed him!_"

"_What!_" Ron jerked as though he had been shot. "Why the _bloody hell_ would I do _that, _Hermione!"

"_Look_, you—"

Snape was breathing in deep, controlled breaths. Alive. But how…

Corpus morendus, of course. _Now_ the information about that spell was coming to Hermione Granger, about three sentences too late. Ron was right; it was harmless and only meant to relax, recover… 

Hermione fell against the side of the bed, ashamed. "Ron," she muttered. "I… I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry."

"You thought I killed him. You're serious. You really, really, honestly thought that _I_ killed him."

"I was—"

"You really, really thought I killed him, Hermione," he resumed, dully. "And all I was trying to do was to make that bastard a little more comfortable and keep him from molesting you. But you…"

"I was wrong."

"You…" A war was raging in his light blue eyes, a war of confusion and hurt and anger that was gradually clouding and hardening together… And Ron pinned Hermione with a glare that offered no compromises. "I don't know you anymore, Hermione," he said. He pivoted on his heels, and walked resolutely out of the room.

Hermione Granger was too exhausted to weep. 

--

To be continued.

Note: "Corpus morendus" is something I made up myself. Corpus = body and morendus = death. Actually, I lied; I have no idea on the last one. I know "morir" means "to die" in Spanish, so I twisted that around. Heh heh.


	20. Section Twenty

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"No matter what road you travel on, you seem to go through the darkest places." (PM Dawn) 

Section Twenty

            The first person Hermione saw as she left the hospital ward was Albus Dumbledore approaching from the opposite end of the hallway; close at his heels were the last two people on earth she expected to see: Lucius Malfoy and his son, Draco.

            The elder Malfoy's slimy voice was dripping through the air. "… When my son told me about the vicious attack that befell Severus, I came as soon as I could, Headmaster. It seems someone in our midst is insistent on opposing the noble Slytherin house, even after the four houses' _combined_ victory over that abhorrent creature Voldemort. I suggest, no I _insist_ that you commence a full-scale investigation into who—"

            "Ah, Miss Hermione Granger," Dumbledore called as he caught her eye, and raised a hand in greeting. "I had been looking for you all afternoon, my dear. Where have you been?" He reached her and looked at her with a benevolent but otherwise indecipherable gaze.

            "I was, uh… under the weather, and had to be taken to Madame Pomfrey," she replied. She was painfully aware of the two black-clad men who hovered like twin shadows behind the headmaster. Their identical blue gazes were neither benevolent nor indecipherable; rather, they pierced into her with swords of cold calculation.

Hermione forced herself to concentrate on Dumbledore. "Thank you for your consideration. I'm much better now."

"I'm sure _you_ have heard about the, uh,_ mysterious_ attack on your _former_ Potions professor, 'Mione?" Draco probed. "You know, the one _you_ hated so much _you_ dropped his class?" 

Well, _his _meaning was clear, that spoilt Malfoy brat. Evidently having Pansy as a girlfriend did nothing to disperse the disdain and suspicion with which he regarded everyone else. Hermione clenched her hands into fists. "I heard about it today, Draco, along with the rest of the school, when the secret leaked out from_ your _little circle of friends," she said, steadily. "And no, I don't hate him. He wasn't the one who called me a little sh—"

"Indeed, Draco. It was only a slip of Professor Snape's tongue. You mustn't think of it too harshly or jump to conclusions," Lucius interjected, patting his son on the back.

Draco shrugged him off with a scowl. Hermione noticed for the first time how tall Draco had grown; he was now almost the same imposing height as his father. "I forget what Snape says the moment I walk out of his classroom," the younger Malfoy sneered.

"As evidenced by last year's Potions final," Hermione sniffed.

Dumbledore sighed tiredly and stroked his beard. "Play nice, children. I know tensions are running high in Hogwarts at this moment, but please, play nice."

Hermione threw Draco one last glare before turning her attention to the elderly Headmaster. "If you'll excuse me I need to finish my homework."

"Yes, of course. But I have one more thing for you, my dear," Dumbledore responded. He reached into the depths of a gold-trimmed robe sleeve, and pulled out something small and red that resembled… "'The Complete Poems of William Butler Yeats,'" he recited, running his long, spidery fingers over the words on the crumbling cover. "I found this in the potions room on Professor Snape's desk. I believe it belongs to you."

Suddenly, Hermione was trembling. Did he know, she thought in a wave of panic. How did Dumbledore know? And Snape… oh, Merlin, she remembered that day all too well. "But how did it – I mean, why would—"

"At least I hope I am not mistaken." Opening the front cover, Dumbledore produced a scrap of yellowing parchment. "The note says 'Return to Hermione Granger' in his handwriting. Apparently he did not want to forget that he had confiscated it from you. Severus is not a great fan of your reading in his class, but neither is he a great fan of Muggle literature." Dumbledore winked, smiling.

The meaning dawned upon her in layers; Hermione understood. "Oh. I'm… I'm glad I'm getting this back." She took the volume – it was cool and rough and carried traces of a familiar cinnamon scent – and held it to her chest with both hands. It was all she could do to prevent herself from bursting into tears. "Thank you."

"Go back and do your homework now, Hermione. Advanced Transfigurations is quite difficult. Quite difficult."

"I – yes."

She practically fled. But it seemed as if Dumbledore's voice was still echoing in her mind, and if she wasn't mistaken, she imagined she could almost hear a hint of sadness behind his simple words, and see a kind of gloom settling underneath those endless sapphire eyes. 

--

To be continued.


	21. Section Twenty One

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"No matter what road you travel on, you seem to go through the darkest places." (PM Dawn) 

Section Twenty One

The room was locked now, with three bolts and a chain. Poppy Pomfrey said to Hermione that it was for Severus' own good, really – a rabble-rouser had apparently burst in and charmed him with a morendus spell, and she could not risk such mindless antics in the future.

"He will be in tip top shape very soon," Madame Pomfrey assured as she arranged a small assortment of pills in a porcelain bowl. "All he needs is quiet and rest."

"But the Cruciatus—"

Pomfrey chuckled, sounding amused and a little impatient. "My dear, you've come here six times in the last five days. I've told you that he is not dying, regardless of what schoolyard rumor you heard. When he was hit with Cruciatus, his body reacted by running a high fever. And that fever will soon run its course. Now, I don't mean to pry, but don't you have classes to attend?"

"Yes. Well, thank you again, Madame Pomfrey." Hermione began to walk out of the ward, her feet dragging like lead.

"My dear."

She turned around.

"Look," the nurse resumed on a softer note. "I know you're very worried about your professor – and rightly so – but please, believe me that he'll be back on his feet and taking points away from your house and blasting apart rosebushes at Yule Balls before you know it. Understand, my dear?"

"Yes, I guess," she said, her throat aching. It was a feeling she had grown thoroughly accustomed to during the last several weeks. She trudged out of the hospital ward, bleakly, as though a rain cloud had decided to make its permanent residence above her head.

Four days later the rain cloud disappeared.

She was on her way to the Great Hall for dinner when she saw him in the distance, glaring down at a group of first-years as his black cloak swirled about his feet.

"And ten points from Gryffindor," she heard him say.

Oh God.

Severus Snape.

--

To be continued.


	22. Section Twenty Two

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"No matter what road you travel on, you seem to go through the darkest places." (PM Dawn) 

Section Twenty Two

And Hermione Granger did the last thing she expected to do. She ran. Not towards him, but down the same path from where she came, and it took her a while to become aware of the fact that she was running _away from him; now that she could see him again for the first time in almost two weeks he seemed… changed, somehow._

Not visually. No, he still looked like he always did, still like a point-confiscating, rosebush-blasting git. But his aura, if he indeed possessed one, had grown so vibrant she could feel it even now, pulling, beckoning to her.

And Hermione was afraid to give in, for fear of what she might do once she got trapped inside.

She veered around a corner and slowed to a stop, flinging her back against the wall. She was panting, but it wasn't entirely from her excursions. 

Merlin, what was _wrong with her? He was just a man, and a particularly surly specimen at that. But she knew that she couldn't go near him anymore, just couldn't. During the preceding sixty seconds he had done absolutely nothing to her and yet he was so suddenly different in her eyes that…_

And to think there had been a time when she had _wanted to see him falter, __wanted to see him miss a few days of school so that she could spend a class period chatting with friends. And now, if she had to endure the agony of seeing him suffer in sickness once more, she didn't know how she could ever survive again._

She almost laughed in disbelief.__

_Good Lord, Hermione, _you're _the one who has changed. Not Snape._

A tremendous feeling was swelling for him from the depths of her heart – what was it called? She struggled to attach a word to it – ah, she knew now; it was on the tip of her tongue…

And a silky voice crossly demanded, "Who has given you the privilege of running in the halls?"

Hermione snapped to her senses just as Professor Severus Snape appeared before her. "Ten points from – Miss Granger?" His hand clambered for a grip on a corner of the wall and his knuckles were white. "Oh, it's… you," he added, thickly, and cleared his throat. "Well… expected behavior from you."

"Professor."

They were silent.

He was standing quite close to her; his proximity confirmed what she had suspected: that he looked, acted and even smelled the same, despite his recent illness. But the aquiline angle of his nose and the lock of hair falling in front of his hazel eyes did not appear so distasteful to her as they once did… perhaps it was only a trick of the light.

They were still silent.

Someone should speak soon, Hermione thought, vaguely. This was not, well – _normal_ – locking eyes with a person for so long, without talking or looking away.

"Miss Granger—"

"Professor Snape—"

Hermione was thoroughly flustered. She took a deep breath (also a bad idea, for now she was engulfed in his wonderful scent) and licked her parched lower lip. "I'm sorry. You first, Professor."

"No, _you_ first, Miss Granger," he replied.

"I… well – the thing is… well, I mean… why me?"

Snape smiled. It was barely detectable and bordered on a smirk, but was undeniably a smile. "Because," he said, "of _courtesy." The smile widened. "But I'm sure you've forgotten about that."_

She couldn't resist. "Not at all. I'm glad you got _something out of your stay in the infirmary, Professor."_

 "Pity for you it wasn't the Black Plague." And his smile curled into a firm frown. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for running in the halls, Miss Granger. You should know better than to create new rules for the school while I am away."

Well. She didn't know whether to be hurt by his caustic remark, or be relieved that he was retreating onto more familiar ground. "It's close to dinnertime, after all," she said.

"I take it that is why you're running _away_ from the Hall, hmm?"

"You go on ahead. I'm not hungry."

"And I'm not _stupid_, Miss Granger," Snape whispered, darkly. He leaned in until his face was but centimeters away from hers.

"Whatever ideas are going through your mind, whatever scheme or plan," Hermione heard him mumble through the tornado storming in her ears, "I want you to get rid of them. _Now_." His gaze deepened with silent meanings. And then he turned and swept past her, the hem of his black robe brushing her ankle in a curt, unspoken goodbye.__

_Not yet_, Hermione thought. She followed him.

It wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it was where her senseless feet carried her: after Professor Snape. He was tall; his stride was swift and she needed to almost jog before she fell into step beside him. Two passing Ravenclaws exchanged quizzical glances among themselves, and Snape barked at the two youngsters a venomous warning that sent them running for their lives.

"Look, the only thoughts that are going through my mind are questions. Who did this to you?" Hermione said under her breath as the Ravenclaws' footfalls quieted. "Who put Cruciatus on you?"

"Go away," Snape replied, quickening his pace.

"Aren't you going to dinner?"

"I refuse to dine with a school of dunderheads who are undoubtedly – _disappointed_ – that my brush with death had merely been a brush."

"Where are you going, then?" she demanded.

He stopped and spun around so abruptly that Hermione had no time to gain her footing; she careened into him. His body was warm, hard, and his large and steady hands grabbed her upper arms. For a moment his cloak swirled around the both of them like a dark, musky envelope… and for that moment, time stood still and all Hermione could think about was holding onto him and diving into heated oceans.

And it was over as soon as it came, and Snape had pulled back until they were a safe distance apart. He sighed, "If you must know, Miss Granger, I am going to my room, where I plan to spend the evening _alone_. Therefore I suggest _you _go back to your _friends_, instead of experimenting to see how many points I can take from your house within the hour."

Friends. Bitterness welled into the rims of Hermione's eyes. It wasn't a topic she wanted to dwell on now, especially after Ron had…

She blinked rapidly several times, forcing down her anger. "Well, you see, I don't really have friends anymore."

"Use your own sound judgment, Miss Granger," Severus Snape said without any change in expression. "Now get out of my way." He sidestepped her, and left.

--

To be continued.

Note: Dear Goddess of Reviews, it wasn't my intention at all when I wrote that and no, I wasn't in the least bit offended! Hehe, bad thinking on my part. Anyway, thanks for reading.

Another Note: Yes, I'm still alive. Sorry for the lack of updates! I had college interviews and a Bowie concert to go to, and most importantly, I was struck with a severe case of Senioritis. (Translation from high school lingo: Now that first semester Senior year is over and grades don't matter anymore, I got really, _really_ lazy.)


	23. Section Twenty Three

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

"No matter what road you travel on, you seem to go through the darkest places." (PM Dawn) 

Section Twenty Three

Three hours later she was standing outside of his door, the tattered red book of poetry tucked under her elbow, a foil-covered bowl in her left hand, and a small, flickering candle in a bronze candleholder in her right.

It hadn't been particularly difficult sneaking out of the Common Room this evening; Ron, Harry and Neville had moved their nightly checker games to Harry's room weeks ago, and the cluster of Gryffindors who were present had been engrossed in cramming for an upcoming exam. They had only barely lifted their heads when she'd walked out, and had regarded her with what could best be described as empty disinterest.

And then it had occurred to Hermione that no one really cared what she was up to, whom she planned to see. Perhaps they never had.

Moving the candleholder somewhat precariously to the bowl, Hermione placed her fingers lightly on Snape's door. She suddenly felt that she had been dragged back in time; she had been here before, and the memories were still fresh in her mind. She could almost see them etched into the dark wooden surface before her, glowing in the dim candlelight.

Hermione hesitated.

Now that she was actually here she couldn't bring herself to follow through with her plan. _Damn my nerves, _she thought, and hastily ran through the dialogue in her mind once more.

_Damn my nerves for actually wanting to do this. Damn my nerves for being so meek._

She balled her hand into a fist to knock – and hit air as the door swung open in front of her. Her stomach flipped shiveringly as she stared into Severus Snape's dark green gaze.

The candle wavered from its perch on top of the covered bowl, swayed, and tumbled downwards in a little defiant streak of orange and yellow.

Hermione let out a yelp as it plummeted headfirst and met with – of all places! – the edge of Snape's black cloak. The tiny drop of fire immediately ignited the corner of fabric into a blazing orb, but before it had a chance to grow any further, Hermione had jumped forward and stamped the flame with the heel of her shoe. Then there came the sound of a subdued hiss, and the fire curled into nothingness among a wisp of smoke.

Hermione kicked the spent candle down the damp corridor, just as Snape grabbed her by the wrist and fiercely yanked her inside of the room. He cast a spell; the door clicked shut behind her.

And the Potions Master demanded through clenched teeth, "What do you want from me!"

His eyes were shining, unnaturally bright. Hermione thought,_ as if they were… wet. _She swallowed, almost in suspended dread at where all this was leading.

And then the moment broke.

Snape dropped her wrist, limply. The steely, shiny look in his eyes vanished, and his voice, now soft, rumbled through the silence, "What do you want from me, Miss Granger."

It wasn't even a question, but more of a statement that a defeated combatant would mumble when he is too weary to continue fighting. The Potions Master took four steps toward a large stuffed chair placed beside the crackling fireplace, and sank into the black velvet depths. His face was dancing with shadows and light. He rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger, and let out a shuddering breath.

It was a breath that wrenched at Hermione's heart.

She moved forward, quietly, standing several feet behind him, feeling like a newborn bird perched upon a new frontier… or a gaping chasm.

Snape was not looking at her. His eyes were knitted tightly closed. "I've told you to leave. Why will you not leave?" he asked, softly. He didn't even sound angry anymore. "Why are you here? Why are you doing this?"

She found her tongue after several stuttering tries. "Maybe I find this the right thing to do."

"Excuse me?"

"You… you heard me… Severus."

"Then I suppose I will take twenty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger."

"Damn it, _what's wrong with you_?" Hermione snapped, as the civil dialogue she had been practicing for the evening crumbled into inexistence in the recesses of her mind. Liquid fury seized her. The Potions Master had opened his eyes and was glaring at her in unexpected alarm, but she could care less. All of the pent up emotions, all of which previously could not be formed into speech, were gathering, firing out as words.

"I'm trying to – I'm _trying_ to have a regular conversation with you – for _once_ – maybe we can solve some things – but _no_! You're just not going to let this happen, are you, Professor Snape? Why do you have to make everything so damn hard? Why can't you be – _normal_?" She furiously swiped at a stray frizz of hair tickling her cheek. "_Why_? It feels like every time I talk to you, you act like you've forgotten what happened the day before, and you make everything start from square one! I mean – do we _really_ have to start over each time, screaming and threatening each other? It's so bloody _difficult_, Severus! It's bad enough as it is, knowing that I'm in – in…" Hermione trailed off in apprehension. "That I'm in – _involved_ – with you," she finished, shudderingly.

She clamped her teeth together. Merlin, this was _not_ going well. What had she wanted to say? _That_, she realized. Oh no. God, no. Her vision was swimming, swimming, and she stumbled back, clambering for a hold for something that could steady her; she found the arm of a wooden chair and crumpled into the cold seat.

The world was falling down…

This was not happening.

"I didn't mean it," she heard herself whispering in a husky tone that she could hardly recognize as her own. "That wasn't what I wanted to say."

"Involved…" Snape murmured. "I see." And then he made a small, curt sound in his throat that could have been called a laugh. "Involved," he repeated. His eyes were unreadable.

"Look, forget it."

"Yes, Miss Granger."

It was nearly impossible to speak now, through what felt like a boulder in her throat. "I don't – I don't know how! I don't know how I ever wound up in this place… it's just – one thing led to another, and – I don't know!"

"Then leave!" Snape cried, twisting in his chair and staring at her hauntedly. "Leave, Miss Granger… before we do something we will both regret."

Hermione was stilled.

Oh God, she thought. He was right. It very bluntly struck her that she was not the only one in this, that she was not the only one struggling against those inner feelings that they were too frightened to bring out into the open.

_Was that why he was pushing her away? Was he afraid of himself? _For_ her?_

She had a terrible urge to leap into his arms and embrace him. But it was impossible. Of course.

Hermione stayed in her seat. "I can't go," she said.

"And why is that?"

"Because I…" She remembered the covered bowl and book cradled in her arms. She stacked them on top of each other and held them out to the Potions Professor with trembling hands. "I brought these for you," she whispered, a little helplessly.

Snape remained frozen. "The book is yours," he said, "so keep it."

"Well, then take the cookies, because you didn't eat dinner and you're still weak."

"Merlin's bones, Hermione—"

"Just take it, okay?"

He slowly stretched out his hand (she ruminated over his tapered fingertips, so beautifully sensitive and full of history) and lifted the bowl and brought it into his lap. He gingerly peeled off of the foil wrapping; it crinkled musically as it dropped to the lushly carpeted floor, and Hermione was reminded of a child on Christmas morning.

Suddenly her face was unbearably hot. She wracked her brain for something to say. "I, uh, it's Muggle food. What my friend back home sent me by Owl. I would have gotten something from the kitchen but it was late and the House Elves—"

"Thank you."

Hermione blinked, rapidly. "_What_?"

"Must I repeat myself every bloody time, Miss Granger?" he responded with a familiar scowl. "I said 'thank you.'"

And Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from releasing a flood of tears. "Your… welcome," she replied. Average, polite, human words. She gazed at him, so handsome, really, under the soft hues of the night, and nearly smiled.

"But I regret to tell you I am not hungry at this moment," Snape said, with an arrogant twitch of his mouth. He reached down for the tin foil and re-covered the bowl. "It shall have to wait for the future – perhaps when I am the lucky recipient of another – _wonderful_ – school prank, hmm?" He placed the bowl on the table behind him and dusted his palms.

Okay, he was still an ungrateful git, Hermione confirmed with certainty. He would be one for the rest of his life… but somehow she did not feel hurt by the realization. "Take care of yourself, Severus."

He didn't speak.

"You're still weak from the Criciatus…"

This time he _did_ speak. "Leave it alone, Miss Granger, I beg of you."

"I can't! Merlin, do you know what _I_ went through when you were nearly dying of fever? Only a couple of days of pure _hell!_" Another confession, Hermione thought as soon as her rebellious lips were sealed closed. She was confessing more to him than she was to herself, and she was almost powerless to stop it.

"Stay out of business that is not yours," Snape replied tightly.

"How can I, when you almost bloody _died_ and no one yet knows who did it? And no one knows if he or she is going to strike again? Aren't you just a _bit_ curiou—"

The Potions Master was out of his seat and looming over her, his two hands grasping either arm of her wooden chair, before she could finish the sentence. "Curiosity, Miss Granger," he said, "killed the cat." And then he leaned in and roughly kissed her.

And by the time Hermione had registered what was happening, had begun to taste a whisper of that delicious, hot pressure against her lips, Snape had jerked back from her as though puppet strings were pulling him. He spun on his heels and swept to the opposite end of the room, where a full bookshelf blocked his flight.

_If that bookshelf wasn't there, he'd be clear to the other side of Hogwarts by now, _Hermione thought disjointedly. She felt stunned, calm. And cold.

She shivered.

For a moment, everything had been perfect…

His murmur came, muted and rumbling, "Now get out. Do not pry any more into what you are not supposed to know. Understand? Get out."

_Get out. Get out. Get out._

And it was only when Hermione was back in the safe, frigid darkness of her room that she realized Snape had kissed her for the sole purpose of making her leave. Why? Did he detest her as a man would detest a pebble in his shoe? Did he want to protect her from something? Someone?

Did he hate her?

Hermione felt once more the ghost of his proximity enveloping her entire soul, and found herself almost desperately hugging her pillow.

She wanted to cry, to let it all out in a flood of self-pitying tears. But she stared off into the eternal darkness, tasted the musky sweet perfume of his mouth on hers, and could not close her eyes. 

--

To be continued.

Note: Gah… this is coming along at a snail's pace, but I swore to myself I will finish this fic, and I will. Just… probably not soon. Haha.


	24. Section Twenty Four

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER

By: Scatterheart

Section Twenty Four

Hermione met the golden late-spring dawn sifting in through her window with a dry and frozen gaze. The winter months had passed and the days brightened earlier now; three or four more hours would pass before her first class would start. Maybe if she could manage an hour or two of sleep before stumbling off into the halls of Hogwarts like a drone…

Once again, the kiss replayed itself over her mind again, over her tingling skin.

Oh, Merlin.

She burrowed her head under her pillow. It was ridiculous to think that she could forget all of this in a sleepless night – it was foolish of her to try to convince herself that she _wanted_ to. His firm mouth, his shapely nose pressed against the side of hers. Perhaps she had felt a lock of his hair fall coolly onto her feverish cheek as well.

"Snape," Hermione said aloud, her hoarse voice muffled by her pillow. She needed to hear the detesting sound, she needed to hear it grate like metal into her ears so that she could conjure up all the vile and beastly imagery that could possibly be associated with that awful surname.

Crutiatus or not, it was over. He was alive once more, and it didn't bloody matter who had cursed him because the most important thing was that he was alive, so now everything could go back to the way it was before, all the way back to that lovely paradise before the winter vacation, when Snape was a cardboard villain to her, not a man, and owed her nothing more than some snide corrections scrawled over her potions homework and a final end-of-term grade.

_You bastard, you owe me, _Hermione snarled to herself.

He owed her. He had kissed her – _kissed _her! – and when he felt that the kiss had continued for long enough, he had simply torn himself away, quite frankly not giving half a thought to what the party on the receiving end had wanted. Because she had barelytasted –

No.

Hermione curled herself into a furious ball, hugging her knees to her chin.

Merlin, aside from the fact that he was a thoroughly unappealing git that no wholly sane person should be craving kisses from, he was her professor.

_Former professor, _Hermione reminded herself.

But he was a professor just the same, and she was a student, and what he had done was wrong; he had stepped miles and miles beyond the line of decency, he had flaunted England's and Hogwarts' time-honored laws in their faces, and he had –

The thought struck her like a photographer's flash igniting the midnight blackness. Hermione found herself bolting up in her bed.

Oh God, Severus Snape, that bastard, she had him now.

And suddenly she was hopping out from the sheets with an energy she was sure she had lost somewhere among the mess of the past few weeks, pulling on her rumpled uniform and stuffing her feet into her shoes.

Running out of the door, Hermione could almost swear that were it any other day, she would have smiled.

--

To be continued.

Note: After 9 months of absence, this fanfic is back. Sorry for the wait, everyone.


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